


Devil-may-care

by euphorbic



Series: Azatide tattoo fic spin-off [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Azazel is the Voice of Reason, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, Knives, M/M, Present Tense, Sexual Content, Smoking, Violent Language, villains in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 108,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9232256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic
Summary: Janos has his demons. Azazel is his own.(A spin-off fromThe boy with the heart on his sleevecovering the trajectory of the often tumultuous relationship between Azazel and Janos Quested.)





	1. The Prince and the Pea (part one of three)

**Author's Note:**

> These two characters have always been favorites and I've always wanted to write for them, but I didn't really go for it until I needed an outlet for personal upheaval. Because this fic was begun as an outlet (much of which was thumb-typed in queues, on trains and buses, or in cafes via chats and my phone's Notes app) I haven't edited it heavily or researched it as much as my other fics. I never intended to archive these pieces on AO3, but tumblr is a terrible place to post fic so I opted to compile and continue the fic here.

 

 It’s always the Strait of Malacca and it’s usually at night. Around the front of the ship, controlled and not so controlled bursts of gunfire are going off. Azazel isn’t participating in those; he’s in the back of the freighter waiting for the high-speed skiffs he expects to try to outflank them. If he’s lucky some of the Indonesian pirates will get in close enough for grapples and he might let them up for a nice round of hand-to-hand combat. 

It’s nearly February and after months of shirking what nonexistent duties there are for the business’ Northern Sea services, Azazel had signed a security detail up for a freighter transporting oil to Singapore. Piracy has cooled down in the area in recent years, but between the local populations and enterprising long-range Somalis, it’s always a risk and risks pay well.

The night sky and the dark water are lit with flares and floodlights, but it’s still hard to see far out on the water. Azazel keeps tuned in to the radio chatter and barks orders when needed; his group is mostly Russian with a few Ukrainians thrown in to add tension. They do good work and they’re usually too busy trading jibes and competing with each other to band together against Azazel. Not that he would mind if they did, putting underlings in their place is something of an amusing pastime.

When the skiffs make an appearance, charging up to the ship’s rear as expected, Az chuckles and informs his team. He’s just about to join in with the rest of the shooting when he sees they have RPGs. Perhaps this will be a little less routine than he thought, because at this distance he’s not confident in his gun’s accuracy.

* * *

They put into port in Singapore that morning and hit up Changi Hospital for dealing with shrapnel the ship’s medic didn’t manage to extract. Azazel’s had worse, he’s more concerned about his eardrums after missing his shot on the second RPG and having a rocket go by his head. He hasn’t lost any men, but between him, three of his guys, and one of the ship’s crew it was deemed a better idea to get medical in the city-state than expecting the ship medic to treat them with the ship’s meager supplies.

As far as Az is concerned, it was a job well-done. He even got to beat the shit out of a couple pirates before throwing them over board as possible shark food. Not much beats that. Well, except beating Janos at football or wrestling in bed. Janos is strong and wiry, Azazel can never pin him for more than a second, but it’s fun trying.

Az itches for his personal phone to check for messages from Janos, but he can’t get at it until he’s released with a few stitches and an assurance the ringing in his ears will eventually fade. In the waiting area he goes for his phone, but is interrupted by Port Authority people to fill out paperwork and then it’s a rep from the Singapore Navy; it goes on and on for hours. It makes him question if living for the thrill of pitting himself against other human beings is worth the bureaucracy.

Of course it is, but there’s the problem of it getting in the way of quality time spent communicating with Janos. And, _blyahd_ , if he’s not turning into some happily married _khuy_.

He’s had three hours sleep in the last thirty-six hours, is getting increasingly bitchy, and the men in the hospital with him are beginning to get a little nervous. They’d probably ask if they can go to their hotel if they weren’t worried about volunteering themselves for the long and very explosive fuse of Azazel’s ire. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes they’re known to piss him off just to release the creeping tension.

They’re released at 5pm, just in time for rush hour traffic. Azazel wants to beat somebody bloody, but instead he sits in a taxi with one of his guys and finally breaks down and pulls out his personal phone. Except the taxi doesn’t have wifi.

“Blyahhh…”

The hotel has wifi and Az is satisfied that he’s not the only one checking for messages in the elevator. He has several from Janos, one from Raven. He’s not about to open the feed from Janos in the tiny elevator; there’s no telling what sort of material might be there. Janos isn’t shy about sending provocative nudes. So he opens Raven’s.  

> _Hey Ruskie, I think Janos misses you. He actually called me to talk in the middle of the night (for him), but he didn’t have much to say. It was kind of cute. Come back to the States soon and bring him to visit Portland, okay?_  3:17 AM 

Lack of sleep and general irritability means Azazel doesn’t receive the message well; middle of the night for Janos would have been a few hours ago. He hates missing calls with Janos, for all they have to keep them coded when they get affectionate. “Blyah…”

“Hey, Boss,” one of the men says in Russian, the one that was in the cab with him. “You got problems with your girl?”

A chorus of disbelieving profanity ricochets around the elevator as Azazel turns off and slips the phone into his pocket with exaggerated slowness. This doesn’t happen often because Azazel isn’t merciful when offended and asking about a relationship? That goes beyond offense. Especially when it’s so close to the truth.

Azazel takes a breath and sighs slowly. Then he seizes his underling by the front of his shirt and slams him back through the two guys flanking him. As big as he is, and despite being shoved through two other men, he hits the elevator wall hard. That’s just for a distraction; in the next instant the ass end of one of Azazel’s knives bangs against the elevator right next to the guy’s ear.

In-congruent with the sudden violence is Azazel’s amiable smile. “Comrade, my girl is my job and any _pisda_ I land is none of your business, is it?”

The guy’s a lot taller and thicker than Azazel, but there’s no doubt among any of the personnel who the scariest vet in the company is. They admire and respect him, but Azazel prefers fear. The big guy nods, his chin bumping into Azazel’s knuckles with the motion.

“Understood,” the big blond says.

Behind Azazel the elevator door opens, but Azazel holds both his underling and the butt of the knife against the elevator wall. “I’m feeling a little irritable right now. Since you’re feeling so helpful, why don’t we go a few rounds later?”

The man turns his head to look at Azazel’s knife, the dent in the wall, and then back at Azazel. “Sounds great, sir.”

Somebody behind him is holding the door but another of the company is standing in the doorway to keep the situation shielded from view. Azazel knows better than to let the moment last longer than it needs to; he uncurls his hand from the guy’s shirt and slips the knife back in his sleeve. “Glad to hear it.”

Nobody has anything else to say, so Azazel is able to let himself into his room without further interruptions. He doesn’t even try to make himself comfortable once he’s in; he goes straight to the far side of the room, by the long, thin strip of window and unlocks his phone. It doesn’t take long for the chat feed with Janos to open.  

> _Balmain signed me to walk Paris as a replacement and my agency got me Joseph Abboud for New York. Joseph Abboud ad campaign is signed_. 10:12 PM 

> _The talent scout said I look like a murdering angel. I thought of you. Thank you. I will send photos to show you my appreciation._    
>  10:15 PM 

The following two images are, unfortunately, tasteful in their nudity, lit by the paper and bamboo floor lamps Janos bought in December. One is a view across Janos’ body from one shoulder down to the opposite hip bone. The other is of Janos with his eyes closed in a dead-on approximation of pleasure while biting down on the back of his fist. Both are time stamped half an hour after the first two messages.

Azazel drops a hand to the front of his pants where his body is already reacting with swift favor. The next series of messages don’t add to the mood, though.  

> _Can’t sleep. Tell me one of your boring stories._  2:59 AM 

> _Bore me over Skype?_  3:36 AM 

> _Call when you can. I want to talk._  4:02 AM 

Azazel forgets entirely about his momentary arousal. While Janos always conceals when he feels lonely and needs attention, he’s too proud to make repeated requests roughly every half hour. Azazel walks over to the room’s television and turns it on just for the noise before opening Skype and making the call. It’s 6am or so in New York and Janos should be up and at the gym, but he picks up after only a few seconds.

Carefully, calmly, Azazel forces himself to speak in the husky voice that sometimes makes Janos bite his lip. “Of course you know I miss you, too.”

“Az,” Janos murmurs, distinctly rough with sleep. “When will you come next? I hate this bed.”

“Is there a pea under your mattress, Princess?”

A long silence tells him that Janos is confused by the fairytale reference. Maybe in Spain they’ve never heard of the Princess and the Pea. Azazel has grown up around too many children not to know it and many others. Then again, maybe as eldest Janos was expected to be a serious young man by his mysterious family.

Azazel continues, “Princes and princesses are sensitive to lumpy mattresses. It is mark of royal privilege. Even through many mattresses prince can be disturbed by little things. Maybe pea, maybe tooth for tooth fairy, maybe shiny bullet to take out king.”

The long quiet continues and thanks to the television noise Azazel can only barely make out the sound of Janos moving around with his phone. Normally he would have Janos laughing by now or calling him a goat.

“Princess,” Azazel says quietly, “is something wrong?”

The sound of Janos sighing over the phone is welcome, though not a good sign. “I want to see you. I will leave for Paris in a few hours and you are away on the sea.”

Usually Janos hates it when Azazel calls him princess, but he may also think Azazel is just being careful. Still, this sort of brazen honesty about how he feels is unusual. Is it some sort of manipulation? Janos isn’t emotionally honest when it comes to feelings that are believed to be weak. “I understand, but is there another reason why you cannot sleep?”

“Don't make me say it, cabron.”

“It is me,” Azazel says, “I am the bad one, eh? You can say anything to me, because there is nothing you can say or do worse. I killed some men last night; if there is hell, I am headed there.”

“Attack? Are you hurt?”

“I am fine,” Azazel says through a wry smile. “It makes me feel good you are concerned, but I want to know why you cannot sleep.”

“You promise you are fine?”

“I promise. Now tell me.”

There’s more quiet on the other end of the phone and not much movement. But then Janos says something soft and low. “I miss you, Az. When difficult thoughts go around my head, you make them go away.”

All the fight stalls in Azazel’s chest, he leans heavily against the wall next to the window. “Yanochka, I will come as soon as I can. For now, let’s talk and put these bad thoughts out of your head. Si?”

A small huff of a laugh and then that sexy Spanish lisp, “Si.”

 


	2. The Prince and the Pea (part two)

It takes Azazel a week to get back to New York. He’s in no hurry for all the urgency he feels; Janos is in Paris and he doesn’t plan on joining him there. Besides even though the ringing in Azazel’s ears had faded away as the doctors had said, he hadn’t wanted to tempt fate by getting on a plane right away. All the same, he could have been back in America sooner, but he made a detour to their offices in St. Petersburg to talk to his two partners first.

They’ve been working together for over ten years and of the three of them Azazel is the last one they expected to be asking for fewer responsibilities. Nobody asks why, but Azazel makes it clear it has nothing to do with how things are run nor is he looking into spinning off a rival business; he’s too impatient for that. They know he likes being in the thick of things more than anyone else; he’s the only one of the three that still works in the field.

By the time he gets to New York, the hotels are overpriced in preparation for the last week of menswear fashion week. It will only get worse as the week after is the far more appreciated Women’s Fashion week. It’s fine; what are frequent flier rewards if not to spend on overpriced hotel rooms. He would stay at Janos’ apartment but the damn thing is claustrophobic even if smells good and the décor has been improving. It isn’t like he hasn’t spent plenty of time in New York even before he met Janos, but without Janos there the city has lost a dimension he didn’t know it had gained.

Azazel consoles himself with the influx of messages and pictures from Janos’ stint in Paris that come, somewhat alarmingly, at all hours of the French night. Azazel’s not sure how much sleep Janos is getting but while he does tell Janos he’s noticed, he doesn’t scold; he’s not Janos’ parent or keeper.

For once it’s Azazel waiting in New York for Janos to show up rather than the other way around. Fortunately long hauls on cold seas have taught him a lot about how to cope with waiting. When he isn’t working on his Spanish or replying to Janos, he spends an unhealthy amount of time on the internet searching Janos’ name to see how he’s being received.

It turns out there’s a bit of buzz about him beyond him replacing the other model. As a fresh face Janos is enjoying the same popularity as any other new male model, but his menacing walk on the runway is accruing more note. At least one dedicated male model aficionado has unearthed Janos’ Nike catalog work and several seasons of Triple Cha’s lingerie shoots. It’s nice to be reminded how good Janos’ ass looks in football, tennis, _and_ booty shorts. He’s less thankful for the speculation on Janos’ place of birth; Janos won’t like that. He’s very touchy about his past, Janos.

Between pondering how strange it is to have people that don’t know Janos so interested in him, Azazel takes the opportunity to scout real estate. A condo in New York, his friends have told him, is an investment as well as a convenience. If he finds something he likes Azazel thinks he’ll let Janos pay rent if his pride demands it.

He even trades a few messages with an enthusiastic Raven. If not for her schedule she would come for the New York show and that wouldn’t be so bad because she’d make a great beard. Janos has assured Azazel if it hadn’t been such a last minute thing that Sean would come, too. Charles’ name is blessedly absent; Azazel’s mood turns sour every time the arrogant prick is mentioned.

Finally, Sunday arrives and Janos leaves France. Azazel knows from experience how long that flight takes and even though he’s been waiting in New York for only a few days, these are the hours that drag by the slowest. There’s no call when the plane comes in, but a few hours after its arrival at LaGuardia, a rapid knock sounds at Azazel’s hotel room door.

Smiling to himself, Azazel walks to the door and leans next to it. He’s showered and shaved; whether or not Janos has gotten some sleep on the plane or on the way to the hotel, there’s no doubt how he’ll prefer to cure any jetlag.

“I did not call room service.”

“ _Me cago en tu_ room service, _cabrón_.”

“I see you know pass phrase,” Azazel replies with a chuckle and turns the doorknob.

He doesn’t even get the door completely open before Janos’ bags and overcoat hurtle inside. Janos is like a gazelle, bursting through the door and leaping over the luggage to seize Azazel around the shoulders. Azazel lets Janos’ momentum pivot him on one heel and slam his back into the wall.

“Mmm, I missed you, too,” Azazel says in a low voice, despite the violence of the greeting.

Janos replies with an open-mouthed kiss that lands half on and half Azazel’s mouth.

Thanks to the dilation of Janos pupils and the irritated pink of the whites, the green in his hazel irises dazzle. His hands are hot on Az’s shoulders, his brown face flushed, and his chest heaves against Azazel’s. Azazel can do nothing but grin at having such a handsome, if weirdly exhausted and enthusiastic, man plastered to him. Well, nothing except grin and slip his hands down Janos’ body to seize a hard grip on Janos’ ass.

Azazel presses forward from the wall and bring his lips closer to Janos’ ear. “How long do you have until work?”

“I have tomorrow morning free,” Janos says. He pants a hot breath on Az’s neck, bites his earlobe, and follow up by scraping his teeth over the corner of Azazel’s jaw. “I want you, but I am filthy from the plane. So I think we should fuck in the shower.”

Azazel pulls his head back to look Janos in the face and takes stock again of the obvious signs of weariness spelled out there. He digs his fingers into the muscles of Janos’ ass. “You will fall asleep before your skin care things.”

Janos simply closes his eyes, arches his torso back, and tosses his head back to expose the long column of his throat. “Fuck me, Azazel, fuck me until my legs are weak and I cannot stand.”

There is no way Azazel will deny a request as compelling as it is rare. Heat floods his body and throws him into immediate motion. Using his two-handed grip on Janos’ ass, he lifts him up and kicks the room door closed. Janos immediately wraps his arms more securely around Azazel’s shoulders and encircling Azazel’s waist with his legs. It makes it much easier to maneuver into the bathroom but difficult to keep balance while reaching in to slam the shower on. Especially when Janos clamps down with his thighs and uses his grip on Az’s shoulders to drag his groin up and down Azazel’s abdomen.

“Blyahd,” Azazel says on a shaky exhale. Janos always knows how to erode his grip on sanity.

Peeling Janos away to start pulling apart their layers of clothing is difficult. Janos does not, as a rule, cling, but he resists letting go even once he’s got his feet back on the ground. He wages a passionate, open-mouthed assault on Azazel’s neck between Spanish language profanity and encouragements.

Normally they would both be more careful with their clothes, but between the rising madness of Azazel’s lust and Janos’ purposeful incitements, the resulting impatience leaves their clothes in haphazard heaps across the floor.

Getting into the shower is an embarrassment of uncoordinated stumbling but finally naked Azazel all but picks Janos up and throws him in. The shower water rebounds from Janos’ skin in all directions as Azazel pushes him under the spray. Getting Janos clean is starting to look like more work than expected when all Azazel wants to do is get him dirtier yet.

Azazel feels like an animal; in the face of resistance he crowds Janos directly under the shower spray before allowing himself to drag his fingers all the way down Janos’ back to seize new handfuls of his ass. He likes everything about Janos’ body, but the best thing is being able to take such a possessive hold on him. Az likes to think none of Janos’ other lovers were as capable and as skilled at handling Janos the way he does. Maybe it’s arrogant or delusional, but it’s a pleasant fantasy Janos sometimes allows him.

Azazel uses his grip to jerk Janos’ abdomen against his own. His cock is already hard and Janos’ is coming along quite nicely. Not that Janos’ cock is necessarily the most important part of getting Janos off. Though it is a very handsome dick, they both know it’s usually a detour to what Janos really wants.

The harder Azazel’s fingers dig in, the more passionate Janos becomes; he sucks kisses onto whatever skin his mouth comes into contact with. Azazel returns the favor. Where the water hasn’t washed it away Janos’ skin tastes like salt and vestiges of cologne. The flavor reminds Azazel that Janos really does need to wash up.

It’s a herculean effort to release his hold on Janos’ ass and grab at the hotel’s provided body wash. Janos usually hates the stuff, but he seems to come to his senses long enough to figure out what Azazel intends and turns away under the shower stream again. Azazel pours soap into his left hand while Janos lets the shower spray pound his face and chest.

Az hands the bottle under Janos’ elbow and presses it to his stomach. As soon as Janos takes the bottle Azazel spreads the soap over Janos’ back and lathers it up. He works the lather into the back of Janos’ tense neck and slowly works his ways across his shoulders and then down his back. When he gets down to Janos’ ass, Azazel doesn’t hesitate to slip his hand smoothly into the cleft and slide his hand all the way to Janos’ perineum and back.

Janos’ response is immediate: he gasps and falls forward into the tiled wall under the shower’s fittings. His hands splay out on the tiles for leverage and Janos immediately pushes back onto Azazel’s hand. Azazel is not one to deny Janos; under the pretense of cleanliness he continues to soap up Janos’ ass and reaches further a few times to gently tug his balls.

Before long Janos starts trying to push down on Azazel’s fingers each time they slip over his asshole. With all the soap it’s certainly slippery enough to push his fingers into Janos’ eager body, but Azazel hesitates, not sure how comfortable soap can be inside Janos’ body. He tests by slipping a single long finger into him.

Janos pushes back with such enthusiasm Azazel sees no reason to rein himself in, he pulls his hand back just enough to add a second and even a third finger to the mix. Again, Janos pushes back but this time he makes a strangled noise that’s quickly cut off by the continued spray of the shower water over his head and face.

It doesn’t take much more effort before Janos goads Azazel into taking his fingers out and getting his cock in. Who is Azazel to deny Janos anything he really wants? Especially when Janos so rarely cedes this much control to him.

Azazel works on biting his bottom lip bloody, biting harder and harder as Janos shoves back onto his cock with his ass clenched hard and mercilessly. The friction is getting close to unbearable, but he knows he has to hold off or he’ll finish first and even though it feels much better to finish inside during anal than vaginal sex, he’s not in this for himself.

It isn’t much longer, though, because as he continues to drive himself to meet Janos’ every backwards shove, he knows his strokes are rubbing back and forth over Janos’ prostate. Janos’ jaw has dropped open and he’s gasping for breath when he isn’t swallowing water from the shower. Those gasps grow louder until they gain a vocal quality and then sharp, incoherent cries are issuing from his momentarily unguarded mouth. Azazel has just enough observation to see Janos’ fingers curling under on the tile and then Janos’ body seizes up in the beginnings of orgasm.

If Azazel thought Janos was clenching hard before, the sudden clench and release of Janos’ body on orgasm is even better. Hoping to follow right behind, Azazel grips his hips, slamming into him and renewing the wet slapping sounds of before as he chases the fiery and silken constriction on his cock. It doesn’t take much to push him over the edge of sensory oblivion; it gets all the easier to fuck Janos’ ass as he releases all his pent up concerns with every increasingly wet thrust.

And then Janos’ upper body collapses forward onto the tiles and the shower spray takes Azazel full in the face. It’s a rude awakening, but Azazel ducks his head down and finishes with one last thrust pressing his hips forward with the same strength he pulls back on Janos’ hips.

Unfortunately, Janos isn’t doing well with remaining upright and as soon as Azazel’s orgasm has passed, Janos tips forward to the wall, taking Azazel with him. Pulling out is awkward, but preferable to being attached if Janos does something unthinkable like slid down the wall. Azazel holds Janos against the wall and pants against the back of his head while he waits for strength to seep back into his muscles.

In front of him, Janos sighs, murmurs something, and begins to list to the side. Azazel isn’t in the right frame of mind to stop him from falling over, but he gets an arm in the way.

“Janos, Janos, Janos,” Azazel says, pulling Janos upright with an arm around his chest. “Do not forget you are no twink; you weigh almost as much as me.”

Janos neither replies nor makes any move to pull his legs up underneath himself. With a sigh Azazel leans over to get his other arm underneath Janos’ knees and heaves him up into his arms. Janos isn’t small, he’s not much shorter than Azazel and has a body that he’s cultivated for maximum sex appeal through sports and targeted weight training.

In the weakness of afterglow, Janos feels heavier than he should. Thankfully, as Azazel carries him to the bed, Janos rouses enough to make things easier. He slings an arm around Azazel’s neck to support himself and redistribute his formerly dead weight. Az considers dropping him on the bed without ceremony, but he finds himself more considerate after sex and instead drops to one knee on the bed to set Janos down carefully.

Janos smiles a lopsided smile at this, but that isn’t what catches Azazel’s notice. It’s Janos’ eyes; his pupils are still huge. The redness can be explained, the bruised quality of the skin at the inner corners of his eyes as well, but not the continued dilation of his pupils.

Without changing expression, Azazel lowers a hand to Janos’ face in a caress. Janos closes his eyes and directs a kiss to Az’s palm as it passes over his mouth. Azazel runs his callused fingers over Janos’ jaw line and then down to press his hand gently under Janos’ jaw to feel his pulse. His heartbeat is elevated and, now that he knows what he’s looking for, yes, Janos’ skin is hotter than what the shower should account for.

“Who gave you amphetamine?”

Janos betrays no guilt which means nothing because he’s the trickiest bastard Azazel has ever gotten willingly mixed up with. He opens his eyes and leans his head more fully against Azazel’s hand. “I did.”

A long breath fills Azazel’s lungs for a measured sigh. He runs his thumb thoughtfully across Janos’ skin and then takes his hand away to get off the bed. “Bed is getting wet.”

Azazel turns back to the bathroom to get towels and to give himself more time to think. He drags the towel roughly over his body and turns the drug use over in his mind as he goes.

He knows Janos used to be no stranger to occasional recreational drugs but he’d thought it had mostly been MDM and only when accompanied by people he felt he could trust to some degree. In Portland that meant parties where Sean was usually doing dj duties and Janos was making out with strangers for most of the night. After Az and Janos had gotten more serious Janos had largely given up casual MDM use and making out with strangers.

That Janos has been using some other amphetamine in France and not long after he got off the plane is new behavior. It makes it clearer to Azazel that Janos has remained disturbed and under pressure since they talked a week ago. Chances are good there’s something about the runway work that has Janos deeply conflicted.

Broaching the topic isn’t going to be as easy as talking about amphetamines, not if it’s so serious that just last week it forced Janos to verbally admit that he needs Azazel. Azazel’s glad he talked to his partners, he’s not sure where all this is going to lead or if, perhaps, he’s going to find himself on the offensive side of defense. There’s no doubt in his mind that if anyone is purposely causing Janos this kind of stress that there will be physical repercussions: people do not fear loss of power, fines, or humiliation as much as they fear opened arteries and exposed marrow.

When he comes back to the bed Janos’ jaw is tight and his eyes far away. Azazel sits next to him and hands him a towel; he drops the other he brought on Janos’ head so Azazel can dry his hair. His ulterior motive is to give Janos a form of privacy before he starts asking questions, because even if Azazel is naked, too, he knows better than to confront Janos without giving him a screen to hide behind.

“I thought you stopped using MDM,” Azazel says as a prompt. He hopes this isn’t going to turn into a fight, but there are some hills worth fighting for.

Janos busies his hands rubbing the towel over his legs and then up his stomach and chest to soak up the water clinging to his skin. “It's not ecstasy, it's prescription.”

As if that made it safer; he thought Janos was smarter than that. “What do you use it for?”

“Focus. Energy when I cannot sleep.”

Azazel’s hands stop rubbing at Janos’ hair with the towel. “Yanochka, you are still not sleeping?”

Perhaps it is some comfort to Janos that the towel on his head hides his face, but Azazel feels him take a stuttering breath. “The amphetamine helps after the sleeping pills.”

Azazel resumes drying Janos’ hair only because he doesn’t want Janos to know how alarmed he is; the sleeping pills remind him very much of the downward spiral of cocaine abuse. “I think you know this is too much amphetamine.”

“I know,” Janos says from beneath the towel. The towel Janos was using to dry off with sits on his thighs, crumpled in Janos’ hands. “I will throw it away.”

“I would like that,” Azazel says and finally slides the towel from Janos’ head down to drape over his neck. He wraps one arm around Janos’ shoulder and ducks his head down to gently bite Janos’ cheek. “I would also like if you can rest without sleeping pills. Can this be done?”

One of Janos’ hands leaves the towel and comes up to hold the hand Azazel has on Janos’ shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but that palm, warmer than it should be, presses against the back of Azazel’s hand and that says more than Janos’ mouth is capable of.

“You’re tired but it will be a while, won’t it?” Azazel asks quietly.

Janos squeezes Azazel’s hand and nods. “Maybe you can fuck me to sleep?”

Azazel blows a soft snort of amusement through his nose; he’s not about to tell Janos how unappealing fucking him down from a chemical high sounds. In any other circumstance he’d be willing to try. Then again, he’s not even sure why Janos is offering; the towel doesn’t conceal Janos’ completely flaccid cock.

“Not tonight,” Azazel says. “Maybe some boring story, eh? You didn’t know Princess and Pea, maybe Emperor’s New Clothes is appropriate for hot, new fashion model?”

Janos shakes his head and takes Azazel’s arm off his shoulder and slips from the bed. “No fairy stories.”

“I thought you want something boring?” Azazel says and throws the bed’s duvet, blanket, and sheet back. If nothing else he can draw Janos into bed by getting in himself.

Janos picks his carry-on bag up from the floor and sets it on the bed. He rummages through the contents, giving further evidence of his mental state; Janos’ packing can normally be described as immaculately organized. The carry-on looks more like it ate most of the contents and has slowly been digesting them.

Janos retrieves an Altoids tin, rattles the contents, and holds it up. “Do you want to see before I flush them?”

“Terrible souvenir,” Azazel says dryly. “No, just get rid of them.”

“Your souvenir is a bottle of Armagnac _hors d’âge_.” Janos tosses the tin aside and resumes his search. “I can keep it at my place for you.”

The next thing Janos takes out is a familiar blue box which he holds for a beat of Azazel’s heart. Azazel knows that box; he knows that an ornate gold band with three large diamonds lies within. He’s never seen Janos wear the ring but it obviously doesn’t stray far from him. Once he’s replaced the box Janos drops the bag back on the floor.

Azazel watches him pick up the mint tin and walk into the bathroom. He waits for the minuscule sound of the pills hitting water that he probably wouldn’t have been able to hear if the rocket the previous week had come much closer. But he hears the pills, not a few, and then the toilet flush. Janos doesn’t come immediately back which is easily explained by his eventual exit with all the clothes that ended up on the floor in the bathroom.

“Did you bring anything from Singapore?” Janos asks as he transfers their clothes to hangers even though what they really need is washing or dry cleaning.

“Nothing special,” Azazel replies. “Some marmalade from Singapore and from Russia those Pomadki things you love.”

“The vanilla ones with orange peel?”

“Always you and your citrus peels. Yes, of course, little star-shaped ones that reminds you of torron.”

“You're good man after all,” Janos says and comes back to the bed and sits. “For this I will keep you a little longer.”

“Who could guess you are so easily bought with sugar?”

This time Janos smiles with both sides of his mouth and his eyes, so tired and red, affect Azazel’s chest in a way that he hates, yet accepts as inevitable. “Is this also the mark of royalty? Peas under my mattress, beautiful clothes made for an emperor, and sweet things like a bee?”

A small huff of laughter leaves Azazel at the image formed; Janos might not know the story of the Emperor’s clothes, but it’s appropriate seeing that is exactly what Janos is now wearing and, once he thinks about it, much of the time in a figurative sense. Azazel pulls Janos close as soon as he climbs under the sheets. It’s going to get ridiculously hot under the covers in no time, but Azazel will take the moment.

“Nobody could guess that someone like me can have someone like you.”

Janos turns and pushes his back into Azazel’s chest and Azazel wastes no time slinging an arm around Janos’ waist to hold his overly warm body even closer.

“Last week in Singapore you said you were fine,” Janos says, “but you have stitches.”

“I was fine,” Azazel replies and presses his lips against Janos’ damp hair, “and they do not hurt anymore. What are few more scars, eh? More boring stories to put my Janos to sleep.”

A fine strong hand finds the one Azazel has resting against Janos’ stomach and leads it up to Janos’ chest. Azazel doesn’t miss how fast Janos’ heart is beating but there’s nothing he can do for that except wait it out.

Azazel waits a few minutes to see if Janos will say anything more, but he makes no noise, of course. After a while he disengages his arm just long enough to turn out the light and then slips his hand back to Janos’ chest.

It is dark in the room and the sky is overcast, but the city’s vast light pollution bounces off the clouds and casts more light into the room than maybe there would be even on a clear night with a full moon. Azazel dozes, alert for the little signs of amphetamine finally working its way out of Janos’ system. First, Janos’ heart rate slowly comes down and that’s good. The next part doesn’t take long, perhaps forty-five minutes, and Janos makes the first little kick. This is how it goes with him when he comes down from MDM.

The second kick is half an hour later and it comes with a sudden gasp and increase in heart rate. Azazel says nothing but presses his hand to Janos’ chest to let him know he’s awake if needed. The next one isn’t so bad, nor is the fourth, and somewhere around two or three in the morning, Azazel thinks the kicks have stopped. So he’s perplexed when at an obscene hour, almost four, Janos’ breathing wakes him up.

The noise is irregular, strained, and Janos is now holding Azazel’s hand tightly with both of his. At first he’s bewildered with the idea that Janos might be crying and freezes in panic. Azazel is no stranger to seeing grown men cry, but he never knows what to do beyond an awkward pat on the back. He can’t really pat Janos on the back when his hand is being held close and tight to Janos’ chest.

“Janos,” he says and shoves himself up with his free hand to lean over the Spaniard. It occurs to him that Janos might be experiencing some kind of side effect from the amphetamine, possibly hyperventilating, maybe worse.

And then Janos gasps hard and fast, throws himself upright, and clips his head against Azazel’s forehead in the process. Surprise more than pain distracts Azazel, but then there’s a blow to his face, another to his shoulder, the bed rocks, and then a loud sound as something (likely Janos) falls off the bed and hits the ground hard.

“ _Blyahd_ , Yanochka, fuck.” Anyone else would be disoriented, but fighting is Azazel’s passion so it’s easy to figure out that Janos startled awake and just punched and kicked his way out of Azazel’s personal space. It’s the kick to the shoulder that knocked Janos off the bed when it didn’t knock Azazel back.

Azazel spares a glance to the stitches on his shoulder and then stretches out to look over the side of the bed.

Janos is lying on his back, his carry-on beneath him, arms crossed over his face.

“Bad dream?” Azazel asks.

Janos’ arms move as he nods.

“Are you hurt?”

The arms stay on Janos’ face as he shakes his head beneath them.

“Can you tell me the dream?”

Again, Janos shakes his head.

Azazel reaches down; Janos lets him take his arms away from his face. Janos’ eyes and face are dry, but his expression is terrible, not one Azazel has ever seen him make. His brow is twisted, his mouth a firm line, his eyes set with deep lines.

“Janos,” Azazel says gently, “it is okay, you can tell me. I will be your safe; you can lock away your secrets.”

Janos reaches out and seizes Azazel’s hands, he opens them up and pushes his fingers through the gaps and grips hard, painfully so. “Tell me the story about the Emperor’s clothes.”

Confused by his continued inability to help the situation, Azazel hauls Janos up by the tight grip on his hands. He pulls him back on the bed and then over his body, presses his lips to Janos’ forehead. “Maybe you tell me a fairy story?”

But Janos doesn’t relent or relax, if anything he becomes increasingly tense. It’s always dangerous territory when it comes to pressuring Janos to talk about anything. Azazel has learned to pick his battles carefully, but this isn’t a normal situation. There’s something that’s been bothering Janos so much that a week ago he couldn’t sleep and broke down and admitted he needs Azazel and since then he’s been using prescription drugs and sleeping pills to regulate his sleeping. It’s too much.

“Is there someone else?” Azazel asks, even though he knows it isn’t likely. “You like Carlos?”

The question breaks the troubled look from Janos’ face. “No! How can you think it?”

“Somebody at bar you work?”

Now Janos looks angry and that is somehow better than the anguish of before. “No! There is nobody!”

Azazel doesn’t lift his voice, just keeps taking aim at possible problems. “Money? Did Balmain or your agency pay for last minute flight to Paris?”

Janos rips his hands away and rears up from Azazel. “ _No_ , I paid! That is how it works! You pay and you pay and you pay! You pay everything until everyone wants you!”

He’s a hit a nerve, even if it isn’t the right one. Azazel sits up and tries to take back Janos’ hands, but now that his temper has flared, it’s largely a lost cause. “Yes, you told me this and I said I would help.”

“I'm not your puto!” Janos slaps Azazel’s hands away and backs off the bed. “ _I_ chose _you_! You give me money and you buy me expensive things because that is what I am worth. I allow that; it's my choice!”

“Yes,” Azazel says and drops his hands. “I was lucky you chose me.”

The situation is rapidly getting out of his control and he doesn’t know how to stop it. The last thing he wants to do is go back to the whole issue of homosexuality threatening Janos’ masculinity. _Blyahd_ , he can only imagine what kind of abuse Janos dealt with back in Spain that he’s so sensitive to thinking he’s being used.

Unless it’s precisely that. Unless somebody with some degree of power is looking at his handsome Janos and forgetting that Janos is neither an unfeeling hanger for clothes nor a doll for sexual gratification. Cold fury creeps into Azazel’s gut and smelts his stomach. He barely notices Janos slipping into his underwear and digging through his carryon. When he comes to his senses Janos already has socks on and is pulling a pair of designer jeans up his legs. At his rate Janos may leave.

“Janos,” Azazel says, “I apologize, I only asked these things to push you to tell me what is wrong. I know you are loyal even though you can find better man.”

There is no pause or hesitation in Janos’ movements as he zips and buttons the jeans. “Do not push me. Do not ever push me, cabrón.”

“I am done pushing, Janos,” Azazel says and pulls back the duvet. “It is cold outside, your apartment is far away, and you need sleep. Come back to bed and I will put the bad thoughts out of your head.”

Janos shakes his head and pulls out one of his thermal undershirts. “I want to, but this is not how this works.”

Azazel heaves a sigh and drops his chin to a palm and his elbow to his knee. Yes, this is how it always works; penance gifts and time alone to reflect on the fuck-up. He watches in silent frustration as Janos gets dressed, bundles up in the red cashmere scarf and wool overcoat and takes his leave with carryon bag and rolling suitcase in tow.

A few moments after the hotel door clicks shut Azazel drops back on the bed. Penance shopping is going to have to be enough this time, because he’s not at all sorry for pushing Janos if it has inspired a hit on some bit of truth. Without looking, Azazel reaches back to the bedside and pulls his phone over by the charge cord. He unhooks it and opens the messaging app up to send a message to Janos, but finds there’s already one waiting for him.

 

> _Do not become one of the peas under my mattress.  4:01 AM  
>  _

 


	3. The Prince and the Pea (part three)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: non-violent use of knives, discussion of sexual harassment.

Late Monday morning is gray light through a hotel window and a double bed with only one occupant. Azazel hasn’t lost sleep over the fight; he thinks it over but doesn’t dwell. It seems clear enough to him; Janos’ boundaries have always been too much and they’ve now reached a point Azazel has little patience for. He makes an allowance for Janos contacting him at all, but chemical dependence is not an acceptable alternative to sharing a burden with your lover.

His phone has several messages but Azazel gives a quick shower priority, followed by sending out all the clothes Janos hung up for cleaning, and lastly heading out into the city for a caffeinated brunch. February is cold enough in New York; it’s nothing special in the face of a mild Omsk spring, but it’s bracing. It helps blow the irritation from his head and it reminds him that his face is intimidating enough without scowling all the time. 

In the end he has his coffee, a space with a view of the café door, and a phone with messages. They’re all from Janos, but for once Azazel doesn’t really want to read them. He opens them all the same.

> _You are not a pea under my mattress._   5:53 AM  

> _I think we should forget last night. Yes?_   6:01 AM  

> _I will be out late every night this week, but I have a pass for you Friday._ 12:06 PM  

It’s been awhile since Azazel has had such a need for a stiff drink and a cigarette. The problems are adding up now; first Janos’ and now his. He grabs his coat and heads outside for the cigarette. 

He’s not the only one outside with a need to pave his lungs with tar, but he ignores the rest of the gaggle of people shivering on the café’s corner and lights up. The first deep drag of smoke through his lungs helps clear his head, the next is good just for the taste of good American tobacco. On impulse he holds the cigarette between his lips and checks his phone again to reread Janos’ messages. As he reads, a new one appears.

> _Meet at the hotel bar at 10?_  12:55 PM  

Azazel sucks in on the cigarette and blows the smoke through his nose as he types back: 

> _Yes. Monday night, should be empty_.  12:55 PM  ✓✓

And then, before he can think better of it Azazel adds to his last message: 

> _Friday is not so good. We cannot be as public as that._ 12:56 PM  ✓✓

Janos sees his reply but doesn’t answer.

_Blyahd_ this shit is complicated. Azazel puts away his phone and tries to finish his cigarette in peace, but ends up cataloging all the problems collecting in various drifts. There’s Janos’ secretive problem that may or may not have something to do with being a handsome and ambitious man in the fashion industry or something to do with the specific deal he got to walk in Paris and now New York. There’s the less secretive problem Janos has with the sheer expense of New York combined with the less-than-glamorous payscale of a relatively unknown model. 

And then there’s the host of problems that Azazel broke up with Janos over months ago: moving to New York at all is dangerous for Azazel. There are too many fucking Russian business people and gangsters here and the second he’s recognized and thought to be romantically involved with a man is going to fuck up his life, if not his business. It isn’t just him that can suffer for this; his partners are his friends, too, and they both have wives, kids and all that.

Maybe if he’d told Janos any of that perhaps Janos would have moved up to Vancouver instead where, paradoxically, Azazel has less of a chance of being recognised. This is where Azazel can dwell and lose sleep; this whole mess is of his own making. Besides, who is he to ask Janos to settle for less? Maybe this is what all committed relationships boil down to: in an impossible situation, who makes the sacrifice?

Azazel kills off one cigarette and then a second for good measure.

* * *

Janos would be his habitual five minutes late that night, but Azazel meets him in the lobby and that cuts it down to three. It’s no surprise he’s dressed well; Janos usually dresses to be noticed and admired. From the knit hat pulled down over his ears that riffs on the color of his eyes, to his vicuña scarf which does the same, to his double-collar shearling coat, to the Italian boots patterned with brass hobnails. Sometimes Azazel forgets how breathtaking Janos can be and then things like this happen and he’s momentarily stymied.

Why does Janos have to be so beautiful, he wonders, and paired with a personality that’s even more compelling than his face and style? It’s annoying that Azazel has found himself ready to risk so much to keep him.

Since the lobby is a public space Janos greets him with a handshake and half hug; they’re still close enough that Azazel can smell his cologne and when they pull apart he catches the sheen of lip balm on Janos’ lips. 

“Mr. Quested,” Azazel says and the corner of his mouth turns up even though he doesn’t want it to. “You are well?”

Janos seems amused by the formality. “Yes, Mr. Zelchenko.”

Janos often puts too much tongue into his Zs when it comes to Azazel's name and turns the damn sound into a hard ‘th’. Even though he doesn’t come off gay, when he’s tired or a bit drunk Janos’ Spaniard lisp sneaks out and pings every gaydar in listening distance. Azazel finds it attractive, especially since so many of the sounds Janos makes keeps Janos’ tongue in the front of his mouth.

Azazel gives a soft snort of amusement and leads Janos out of the hotel and across the street where there is a small bar with dimmer lights, cheaper drinks, and far more privacy. Meeting in hotel rooms and carefully choosing clubs and restaurants is wearing on his nerves, but it’s only going to get worse if Janos’ star continues to rise. Fortunately, it’s an old habit for Azazel to sweep his gaze over any room he goes in; the only people watching new people come in are there to enjoy people watching rather than look for trouble. Their gazes pass over Azazel and attach to Janos. Azazel knows from experience their eyes will come back to him and then stay on Janos as theories of their association are spun out.

According to Raven, many people run with the same theory; that Janos is some rich Latino playboy slumming with a bodyguard. In Portland though, Azazel had been inclined to be a bit demonstrative with Janos and that usually turned the story into an expensive escort out with a client. Azazel isn’t offended; he’s more than ten years older than Janos and anything but inviting. It’s Janos that gets angry when people think he’s paid company.

Tonight he thinks people will be inclined to think Janos is what he is and yet he’ll still be slumming.

Azazel orders drink and then they locate seating a reasonable distance from other people; it isn’t too hard on a Monday night, though there are more people than he expected.

Janos gets his first whiskey with ice and Azazel opts to try Americanized Żubrówka for the sake of curiosity. It turns out that the Polish vodka does taste close to the original even without buffalo grass. Janos seems to be curious as well. He looks Azazel in the eye, picks up Azazel’s glass without asking and takes a sip. And then, in a move that is straight out of the past, Janos replaces the glass on their table, pulls out his phone, and says nothing; it’s as if Azazel has been dismissed. Blyahd, this man.

“Reminding me?” Azazel asks.

Janos looks up immediately, his eyes serious but one corner of his mouth pulls wide in his distinctive mischievous smile. “You remembered.”

“It was no accident that day you looked at my eyes and stole my coffee.” It’s a fond memory of consternation at first sight. “I will never forget.”

Janos picks up his whiskey glass and presses it lightly to his lips, maybe to hide a smile, maybe to feel the cold glass. “I got what I wanted. Did you?”

“That and more.” It’s an honest answer and Azazel wouldn’t mind following it up with sentiment, but a bar isn’t the right environment for what he has in mind. So he asks Janos about Paris, about what will happen Friday, and if his runway experience has translated to increasing interest. These are all topics Janos is happy to talk about and with what anybody that didn’t know him would call uncharacteristic verbosity. Janos talks more than most people realize, but only if his rigid criteria are met.

Azazel leaves Janos twice to replace their drinks and both times it’s amusing to see the effect his absence has. When they’re together people are too afraid to strike up a conversation with Janos, but the moment he steps away he sees people calculate how long they have until Azazel gets back. It’s something he knows Janos loves; all the attention with none of the tediousness of being chatted up.

After the third drink Janos usually has a buzz and Azazel is finally a little loose. They bullshit a little, touch on the old amusing argument about Azazel’s goatee, and then Azazel escorts Janos out. Azazel fully enjoys the glances that follow Janos but shy away when Azazel catches them. Being with Janos is not unlike having an expensive sports car; everyone admires but only Azazel gets to touch. If they were in Portland Azazel would gloat publicly, but in New York he has to save his gloating for the elevator where he can safely slip an arm around Janos’ waist and pull him close.

Back in the privacy of the hotel room, Janos doesn’t pause in the door for his coat to be taken. He walks to the center of the room where he plants his feet shoulder-width apart and looks over his shoulder at Azazel. The coat skims the top of Janos’ ass and thus gives Azazel an enticing view of Janos’ muscular thighs and calves.

“Yes, of course you look good,” Azazel says. He knows a pose when Janos gives him one. It’s amazing that Janos’ profile is so good despite what appears to be the low rise of a once-broken nose. Azazel has yet to hear the story of that old injury and doubts he ever will. But there other things he expects to know and that’s the direction he’s decided this night will take. 

Janos doesn’t turn around but he does turn his face forward to look out the hotel window. Azazel sheds his coat and walks up behind Janos to pull off the shearling jacket, the knit hat, and finally the vicuna scarf. All of the garments are hung over the back of a chair, freeing Azazel’s hands to travel around Janos’ waist and down to grip his belt on either side of the buckle. Azazel pulls Janos’ back flush against his body, and presses his lips next to Janos’ ear.

“How are you feeling?”

Janos hums and lifts one arm up to grip the back of Azazel’s neck. “Warm, safe, buzzing. Maybe like slow sex.”

“How much sleep did you have?”

At this Janos sighs. “Only a little.”

“You should have stayed, Yanochka.” Azazel softens the blow with another kiss.

Janos pauses for a moment but then he agrees with a nod. “I lost my temper like a crazy bitch.”

Azazel slides his hands apart over Janos belt and opens them to Janos’ hips so there’s no feeling of being trapped or constrained. “Then tonight we talk. You tell me what is keeping you from sleep; you share this burden with me instead of amphetamine.”

Where Azazel once had a warm body leaning against him he now finds a rigid statue. He hears Janos suck in a breath through clenched teeth a second before the hand at his neck swings away and the other shoves back. Janos rounds on Azazel with the strength of an athlete and the grace of a man familiar with dance. 

The look in Janos’ eyes looks like betrayal and that worries Azazel somewhat because it is a catalyst that turns love to hate, lover to mortal enemy. 

“Why is that question so bad?” Azazel asks quietly. “How can lover’s concern threaten his beloved?”

Two steps take Janos away from Azazel’s reach and to the chair that holds his outerwear. He sweeps everything into his arms and pivots toward the door, but by then Azazel has both his knives in his hands. Janos halts immediately, his eyes widen and then his face contorts in unmistakable fury. It’s nothing Azazel hasn’t expected; he flips both knives and catches them by the long blades.

Janos’ expression shutters, but his eyes don’t follow the knives; he looks Azazel in the eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Take the hilts,” Azazel says as quietly and calmly as before. Janos has handled these knives; at one time it amused Azazel to teach Janos how to use them, but the more he’d gotten attached, the less he thought of Janos as a kitten pretending to use its claws. He hasn’t offered his blades to Janos since long before they broke up.

Curiosity probably isn’t as strong as Janos’ sense of drama, but either way the strangeness of the situation influences him; he sets his outerwear aside and steps forward. The shuttered expression turns cautious, conflicted, as he reaches out and takes Azazel’s knives by the hilts. Azazel is satisfied to see that in all these months Janos hasn’t lost the knowledge of how to hold them.

Azazel draws the blades back with his fingertips. He sets one point between his ribs, the other at his throat and says, “Do you feel safe again?”

Janos’ gaze moves from knifepoint to knifepoint and then up to Azazel’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you feel scared or safe or even powerful?”

“I feel confused,” Janos says. “I don’t understand why you are doing this.”

“To remind you of your power.” Azazel takes his fingers from the blades and lets his hands drift wide. “Something bothers you and you are scared to tell me, but why are you scared? You have power.”

Another breath hisses between Janos’ teeth, but his eyes aren’t angry. He takes the blades away from Azazel’s body and turns his wrists so the hilts point toward Azazel instead. 

“Are you sure?” Azazel asks. “You trust me?”

Janos looks away, his profile severe with the jut of his jaw. He nods.

Azazel takes the knives and slips them back into the sheaths under his suit’s blazer. “I trust you, too.”

As close to an agreement as this is, Azazel doesn’t push any further with words or actions; he extends a hand to Janos and waits. It takes Janos a long moment to acknowledge the offer and when he replies by dropping his hand over Azazel’s, Azazel curls his fingers around the hand, but steps toward Janos rather than pull him in. “How do I make it easy?”

One side of Janos’ mouth thins in a grimace. His face doesn’t move, but his eyes glance up; he shrugs and says nothing. Then he pulls his hand away and walks over to the bathroom, pulling his tight sweater up over his head as he goes.

Azazel keeps patient distance until they’re both undressed and in bed with the lights off. Usually Janos likes to sleep with Azazel at his back, but this time he turns to face Azazel. Azazel isn’t sure if this feels more intimate to Janos or if Janos is suddenly afraid of turning his back on him. It’s hard to understand why talking about some problems can be so difficult for Janos. It’s impossible for Azazel to see him as a man with social anxiety, not when Janos wants attention more than almost anything else in his life. Demanding attention is, to Azazel’s thinking, a form of communication. Janos is very good at communicating when he deigns to speak with someone, though he’s even more a master at speaking with his body.

A little more than half an hour after they’ve gone to bed, Janos shifts in front of Azazel. He feels Janos’ hands move under the covers until they locate Azazel’s. In the dim light he can see Janos biting his lower lip, but that is second to the intensity of his eyes. Azazel inhales carefully through his nose and closes his hands over Janos’ and waits for him to say something.

Almost on cue, Janos releases his lower lip and opens his mouth to speak. He closes his eyes, sucks in a breath. 

And becomes utterly still. 

For an uncomfortably long time Janos doesn’t make a noise, not until he exhales. Janos opens his eyes again but he doesn’t look Azazel in the face. Did he try to speak and fail?

It occurs to Azazel that Janos might have some psychological condition that’s making it impossible to speak on certain subjects. Something like that, he thinks, would be triggered by trauma. If somebody did this to Janos, and he can find them, Azazel would like to hack their pelvis out and feed it to them.

If Azazel has communicated any of the potential violence he feels to Janos, it doesn’t show. Janos sighs, closes his eyes, and bows his head until his forehead rests against Azazel’s chin. The touch is a welcome burden.

Azazel releases his hold on Janos’ hands so he can reach up to frame Janos’ face and give an encouraging kiss to his forehead. “Slowly. Slowly is okay.”

Janos moves his head in a nod, but his face doesn’t express any confidence. He pushes at Azazel’s shoulder until Azazel takes the hint and turns over on his back and then rests his head against Azazel’s chest.

An hour later Azazel is jolted awake to Janos propped up on one forearm, beating his fist against the mattress. Azazel doesn’t need any knowledge of Spanish to understand the angry words passing through Janos’ lips; he continues the rapid fire punches to the bed. It’s frustration given over to a pressure valve of violence. Azazel sits up and lets Janos continue, but reaches to the bedside table to check the time on his phone and, habitually, check for any messages. 

When the concussion of Janos’ fist subsides Azazel puts the phone down on the bed and rests his hand on the back of Janos’ damp neck. It’s 2am. At this rate Janos is going to be just as bad off as the previous week. There will only be enough time for Janos to come to bed each night and no amphetamine to fall back on; pushing like this is probably not the answer. Maybe they’ll have to wait until the weekend and then chance getting Janos sloppy drunk; Raven has made it clear Janos is a nightmare when shitfaced, but Azazel doesn’t see any other possible quick fix.

Janos moves so his upper body weight is supported on both forearms; his head lowers and Azazel massages firmly at the back of his neck with one strong hand.

“Maybe we try again Saturday with more alcohol,” Azazel says. “Or maybe you need to see professional. Have you had this trouble before?”

Janos shakes his head.

“Because you never try,” Azazel asks, continuing to massage Janos’ neck, “or because it is me?” 

Janos rubs at his face but doesn’t say anything. It concerns Azazel a little that Janos isn’t speaking at all, but then he moves out from underneath Azazel’s hand and reaches for Az’s phone. He takes it and holds it up and to Azazel’s relief he says, “Unlock it.”

It’s a strange situation, but Azazel takes the phone from Janos and unlocks it as requested. As soon as he’s done so Janos takes the phone and sits up. Azazel’s not sure how to read the situation when Janos turns his back to him. 

However, Janos looks over his shoulder and motions Azazel forward and who is Azazel to resist? He sits right behind Janos, pulls him back so Az’s chest is leaning forward against Janos’ back. 

Az sets his chin on Janos’ shoulder and watches Janos’ fingers move across the phone’s face to their messenger app. He opens it up and then opens the feed between the two of them. Az moves his head enough to look at Janos’ profile and finds a determined, edging on pained, expression illuminated by the phone’s screen.

In his peripheral vision, Az sees Janos’ thumbs move and accordingly looks back at the screen to see what Janos is typing in halting letters and hesitating words. Az smiles at this; Janos is wily to bypass his vocal cords in this way. 

“Brains as well as beauty,” Az says softly. It isn’t meant as encouragement though Janos could certainly use it. No, it’s simple honesty.

> _Sometimes women models are pressured by photographers designers promoters. Touched or told they can get more or better work for sex. You know this?_

“Yes, of course,” Azazel says. “You have seen?”

Janos’ hands still but his expression grows sharper, his brow furrows deeper. He deletes what he typed and starts again.

> _It happens less to men, but it does happen. I have experienced it._

Azazel stares at the line of text. His heart rate picks up and he hears the roar of blood rushing through his head. Violence makes a ruin of his chest and turns his empty stomach sour. It is only his considerable hold on personal discipline that keeps Azazel calm while in the back of his mind he begins thinking about how he might get away with murder.

“Last week?” Azazel asks and considers it a miracle his voice is not a growl. No wonder Janos hasn’t been sleeping.

Janos looks over his shoulder; his teeth bite deeply into his lips. He turns to the phone and deletes the previous sentence and then spells out a single damning word.

> _Years_.

“ _Yebat_.” It is a struggle to keep himself calm and under control. If Janos was freer with information he probably would already be off the bed and pacing some of his angry energy off. However, Janos never talks about his past or things that cause him to appear weak or humiliated. This is both and it is not something to be endangered, rather he knows he needs to go against his nature and be encouraging instead of demanding details to take swift and painful vengeance.

It’s a struggle to reach around Janos and pull him closer, to bury his nose in Janos’ hair and take a calming breath and murmur, “I see. You are well?”

There’s no immediate reaction to Azazel’s question, but he’s not sure how somebody should react. Especially Janos. How long has this been going on? Is this why Janos is so terribly sensitive about people thinking he’s some kind of high-end prostitute?

After a few more seconds to try to calm down and instead focus on Janos’ feelings instead of his own ravaging anger, Azazel pulls his face from Janos’ regrettably short hair and looks over Janos’ shoulder to see if he’s typed anything else.

> _When this happens I stop working. I am nobody’s whore._

All Azazel can see for a moment is the ‘When’ rather than an ‘If’; it’s ongoing then. Or, at least, not unexpected.

“This happens often?”

> _More often here. Sometimes there are offers but last week the scout had us in our shorts and touched us too much. At first it was not sexual but I knew it would be. I had my phone and pretended to use it to check a pimple. Nobody wants to see that so they ignored me and I took video._

“You took video of pervert? Yebat, Janos, I love how you make people regret,” Azazel says with warm approval, “underestimating your quiet and reserve.”

Janos looks at Azazel with surprised eyes and quickly turns back to the phone. He deletes what he wrote and quickly types in:

> _Your not aNgry?_

“With you?” Azazel asks and shakes his head. “No. Last year, maybe I would be angry. Angry and wrong. I know you have fought very hard for this. I understand fighting to win something. There are injuries in battle or lost ground. But don’t think you must fight alone; you give me this man’s name and video and he will disappear.”

Not surprisingly, Janos shakes his head. The surprise comes when he opens his mouth and finds his voice. “No, I need him a little more. He got me Balmain in exchange for the video. If it's not enough, I want more.”

As the words sink in, Azazel finally feels himself smile a little and his rage turn, in part, into a wicked warm pride. “Blackmail?”

Janos doesn’t appear to take pride in what he’s doing at all; his expression is dark and determined. “No, I will take what I want and I will destroy him when he is no more useful.”

Azazel nods, pleased. He can accept and even admire Janos’ plan but this kind of thing is a dangerous game if the man he’s blackmailing is powerful or influential. Certainly he is one or the other if he can get Janos in to replace a model in Paris’ most anticipated men’s collection and then get him in on another closing day show. 

“Be careful, Janos.” Azazel leans back to get his hands on Janos’ shoulders and begins to knead at the muscles there. “When you blackmail someone they may start looking for dirt on you. If he is smart, he will hire private investigator. Think about telling me his name so I can make arrangements. Okay?”

Janos passes his hands over his face but then he nods. “I will think about it, but I need to sleep now.”

Azazel doesn’t know how he’s going to sleep; this is the first time Janos has ever opened up to him about anything like this. It isn’t that he didn’t think Janos incapable of blackmailing somebody to get what he wants; it’s more that he never thought he would share information like this. Blackmail isn’t something to take lightly, it’s audacious. Janos has said it before and Azazel has to agree, he shouldn’t take Janos lightly.

This time when they lay down, Janos pushes his back into Azazel’s front and reaches for and pulls Azazel’s arm over him. Azazel spreads the fingers of that hand wide; Janos quickly fits his fingers into the spaces and holds tight. It’s another several minutes before Janos, obviously no closer to sleeping than before, presses his ass suggestively against Azazel’s groin.

“Maybe this time you will fuck me to sleep.”

This time Azazel has no qualms.

* * *

Janos’ alarm goes off at 6am. Azazel breathes out his disapproval and reaches to keep Janos in the too-warm depths of the hotel bed. Janos is an elusive one; he slips from Azazel’s grasp, but doesn’t leave until he’s placed a kiss on Azazel’s brow. Az thinks about getting up too, as a show of solidarity, but he doesn’t get far with the attempt. 

Janos is showered and gone before Azazel wakes up next. Once again, the hotel room is filled with cold light and the double bed only holds one occupant. However, the sheets and Azazel’s body are fragrant with Janos’ cologne and the smell of sex. Even though he’s the only one in the bed Azazel doesn’t feel like he’s alone. It isn’t just the scent, though, it’s the realization he and Janos have had a break through in communication unlike any other.

Azazel shoves himself up the bed’s headboard and spends a few moments searching for his phone just to affirm the last message he remembers; Janos’ badly typed out expression of disbelief that Azazel wasn’t angry with him for being sexually harassed. Azazel sighs through his teeth; it pisses him off a little that Janos would think him that kind of irrational idiot but Az being an irrational idiot isn’t without precedent.

His irritation is short-lived; it dies in the fire of what he sees typed out in his phone. The last message he remembers has been deleted and in its place he sees something to make him mad with all the impotent fury of before, only much much worse.

> _I said years. I am 30 this year and it is more than half that many years. But we will never talk about this. Not ever._


	4. Interlude: Short works i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude of stand alone pieces I wrote after _I didn't mean to let you go_ that are connected to the story, but weren't part of a series. Most of these predate _The Prince and the Pea_.

_**Hands** _

The hotel room is warm and dark, lit by a lamp on the bedside table. Only a small amount of outside light from the city and moon comes in through the floor-to-ceiling window. 

The hand held in Janos’ is not his own, but he’d know it before he could recognize the ones he was born with. It has more character, more reliability, more power than most people have in their entire bodies. With the ease of familiarity, but concentration and focus that comes of fondness, Janos threads one hand’s fingers up through the fingers of Azazel’s upturned hand. He curls his fingers across to trap Azazel’s fingers and grips Azazel’s thumb with his free hand.

Azazel makes a hissing sound that could be pleasure, could be pain, as Janos pulls back and stretches Azazel’s palm out. The stretch turns Azazel’s palm into a plane of raised yellowish tendons and palmistry lines that are interrupted by a plethora of forgeries. These additions are only a few of the many scars that litter Azazel’s body and each has a story of some kind behind it.

Janos looks up from where he’s all but turning Azazel’s hand inside out and catches Azazel’s pale eyes. Az nods and Janos looks back down and gently eases back on the pressure. He turns his thumbs in and strokes in firm circles across the surface of the palm. Janos takes his time; these are the hands he likes best in a lifetime of relationships.

He knows all the lines, all the knots, the odd bends, and even has mapped in his mind’s eye what the natural curve of the index fingers would have been were they not unnaturally crooked. Janos settles for a while on the broken line of this hand’s middle finger and looks up again.

There’s a knowing smirk waiting for him there in the corner of Azazel’s equally crooked lips. Janos smiles back but says nothing. This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. Az knows what Janos wants and he’s not shy about giving it to him. Giving him anything, really.

“I was very young, not yet in Spetsnaz” Azazel says, “and it was last year of our war in Afghanistan.”

There’s always a war in Afghanistan, Janos muses. He massages his thumbs across Azazel’s palm for several minutes, but then releases his hold to reach for his open tin of expensive French lotion. Finding unscented lotions is always difficult but he reserves this one tin for Azazel’s visits.

“My division was almost last to retreat,” Azazel continues. “Of course, Mujahideen were not stupid or forgiving and we were teen-agers with shitty equipment and shitty training. They cut us down as we ran away. Showing your back is fast way to die, Yanochka. Never show your back.”

Janos hates being called Yanochka, one of his Bulgarian photographer acquaintances in Portland laughed at him when he asked what it meant. She explained it as a cute Russian nickname made out of his name, like one would give a girlfriend or a little kid. But Azazel is never going to stop calling him that, so Janos pretends to ignore it.

He skims a finger over the top of the cream and brings it back to work into the rough calluses Azazel’s guns and knives have left him. It’s a point of macabre pride that the knife calluses are on both Azazel’s hands where the gun calluses aren’t. Sometimes they play at sparring and sometimes Azazel shows him how to hold those well-worn blades, but those times have become few and far between.

“Almost all my division died running away,” Azazel says. He lifts his free hand and runs it through Janos’ shortish black hair. It sticks a bit; the lotion on that hand hasn’t been completely absorbed by Azazel’s perpetually dry hands. “But those of us in front got lucky; Spetsnaz came on helicopter air raid. I dumped my Kalashnikov and most of my gear and ran for one helicopter. I caught landing rail as it goes up. Behind me two guys grab my legs.”

Janos’ fingers move up to the crooked finger and rub gently at it. There’s no eroticism intended, just affection and care, but there’s no telling if Azazel reads his intention correctly. Maybe he gets it right, Janos doesn’t know, doesn’t care. Like most things, it’s enough that Janos knows; he can choose later what he wants other people to believe.

“These guys, they didn’t want to die,” Azazel says. “Maybe adrenaline helped me hold on while they fought to climb me. Meanwhile, Spetsnaz guys inside are busy shooting. Then I get lucky again, one guy gets shot and lets go. The other guy climbs over me and on his way in he steps on my head and then crushes my finger when he steps on rail in those big boots.”

Janos turns Azazel’s hand over and continues to caressing his broken finger.

“Second time it was broken was less exciting; bar fight my comrades started. Bad punch.”

Curious, Janos lifts the hand up to his eyes to inspect. Broken twice, no wonder. Still, he finds it oddly attractive.

Azazel pulls his hand back and hooks his thumb around Janos’ fingers when Janos’ grip closes to pull back. “And is this the hand you used Tuesday?”

Janos flexes his jaw to signal annoyance. It’s clear that Azazel didn’t misread his prior affection as seduction, but it would have been convenient if he had. Rather than pull back against Azazel, he pushes forward in an attempt to bowl him over on the bed.

But Azazel just pulls him back with one hand and grabs the back of Janos’ elbow to keep reeling him in. That’s the thing with having a former Russian special ops that specialized in hand-to-hand combat for a boyfriend; he usually wins these sort of encounters. Janos is anything but a weakling, though, so he lunges forward and bowls Azazel over like he wanted and lays on top of him.

Azazel chuckles and lets go so he can slip his arms around Janos’ waist and his hands underneath his tight sweater. “Tell me what happened that my Janos has anger management counseling. How does Raven say? Tell me how you slapped a bitch?”

Janos doesn’t want to say, because ultimately it’s a predicament he got himself into. He places both of his elbows on Azazel’s chest and pushes down in protest. Azazel curses in Russian and rolls so he’s pressing Janos into the bed. Azazel's weight presses down on Janos’ stomach and ribs, but then he squeezes hard with his arms and Janos coughs as his ribs and diaphragm are contracted.

Azazel leans down jovially and kisses Janos lightly on the tip of his nose. “Tell me this story.”

“ _Que te folle en pez_ ,” Janos breathes out.

“Only if you are mermaid.” Azazel looks pleased.

“Cabrón,” Janos says with what air he can muster, “I told you everyone behaves strangely here. It is not like Portland. People are very cold.”

“And I told you it would be like this,” Azazel says. He doesn’t change his expression, so Janos doesn’t think this is an I-told-you-so moment. “Cold, competitive, mind games.”

“I knew,” Janos replies.

“Tell me this story.” Azazel loosens his arms and starts biting gently at Janos’ chin and up his jaw toward his ear. “Tell me.”

Breathing is easier but Janos closes his eyes and wills himself quiet. It becomes all the harder when Azazel moves from biting his jaw and starts kissing down the line of one of Janos’ tendons. He knows Azazel can spend a lot of time here, he’s always loved going for the throat, and if he keeps it up for too long he’ll give Janos whisker burn that will show even in the morning. But it feels good. It feels very good.

Janos sighs. “It was the usual behavior. The rumors I take drugs and then the rumors of a criminal background. People that were nice before stopped inviting me out. People that I don't trust are trying to get closer.”

Azazel stops his kissing and pulls his arms out from underneath Janos. He rests his elbows on either side of Janos’ neck and looks down at him. It annoys Janos that he looks so calm and collected, but it’s to be expected. Azazel never has any trouble with things like this; he doesn’t care what people think and he cuts through bullshit with blunt force.

But there’s also patience in Azazel’s eyes and a lack of judgment that lends to a nature that Janos has found intoxicating for over two years now. It almost makes Janos want to tell the whole truth instead of bits and pieces of it.

“Jenet gave everyone an invitation to the agency New Year party, but she did not give one to me. I found out about it from Carlos.”

“Jenet is secretary, yes?”

Janos nods as well as he can with his head against the bed. “She and Maricar sometimes fuck and, of course, Maricar always has better information for this. But Maricar told her I'm a criminal and maybe I would bring bad friends to the party.”

“Ah,” Azazel says with a careful nod. “So you introduced Maricar to sound of one hand clapping.”

Janos sighs. “I almost lost my contract.”

Azazel nods again and rolls them over so Janos is back on top of him. “It is good you accept anger counseling, but you need something else, too. My dick and I can’t always be here for you.”

Janos snorts at that, which he knows is exactly the effect Azazel was going for. For the hell of it, and because he really would like to get a good strenuous fuck in tonight, he grinds down on Azazel’s groin. Azazel’s eyes half-close and he juts his hips up to return the friction. “We will get to that. Have you figured out why they say these things?”

The answer is yes, Janos has always known how this started. It started in October when Azazel met him at MoMA’s Café 2 and one of his supposed lovers jumped to the conclusion that Janos was meeting with a member of the Russian mafia. Sometimes, Janos reasons, vengeance is a two-edged sword.

Janos takes a deep breath and sighs heavily. “I’m sure it is simply playing dirty to squeeze me out.”

“But Maricar is a woman, yes?” Azazel says. It’s a softly-spoken sentence, typical of Azazel when he suspects he isn’t hearing the whole truth. Which, of course, he isn’t. “She does not have competition with you. Maybe Carlos?”

“No,” Janos says and lays his head on Azazel’s shoulder. “He wants too much to fuck me again even though I said it was only the one time.”

Azazel tenses slightly at mention of the one-night stand, but relaxes soon after. He reaches down and grasps Janos’ wrists in a loose hold and pulls one up to his face. “Take their counseling and do something to keep your hands busy. I know you hate when people talk about you, but no more slapping bitches, yes? At least until your career is more important.”

Janos nods and his chin digs into Azazel’s shoulder with the motion. He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, so he turns his head to bring his lips right against Azazel’s ear. “But for now I want you to fuck the stress out of me.”

Azazel breathes out and then nods. “It may take all night, but I will dedicate myself to this cause.”

Janos holds him to his word.

* * *

**_Untitled smut_ **

There’s a bit of a burn in Janos’ thighs, but it’s just an undertone to the friction of rising up and settling down on Azazel’s cock.

With other lovers Janos has considered himself an actor; vocalizing his pleasure to get the reactions he’d wanted from them. Azazel is generally a fairly quiet fuck, though he sounds like he’s in a wrestling match at times.

Janos doesn’t feel like he has to fake anything for Az. He doesn’t have to get loud to stroke his ego and he doesn’t complain when Janos tells him what to do. Az let’s him do what he wants and what Janos wants tonight is to fuck himself for a while on Azazel’s cock.

Janos thinks Az looks good naked, better when he’s sweating; with the bedside lamp on, the sheen of sweat picks up the reflection and highlights the ridges of Az’s tightening abdomen, the broad expanse of his chest, as well as the bunching of his biceps and forearms as he grips Janos’ hips.

As strong as Azazel is, and as much stamina as he has, Janos imagines that his arms are probably aching with the effort of adding support to Janos’ long ride. It doesn’t bother Janos even a little; Azazel likes to feel some pain and Janos likes his lovers to make sacrifices for him. Janos closes his eyes to feel the length and shape of the cock inside him and clenches as a reward.

“Yebat,” Az says. He’s straining. Janos smiles at that and picks up the pace. He loves the feel of Azazel’s cock as he moves up and down it. Loves the control he has over both their pleasure. He squeezes a little harder to make the slide more of a struggle but also to enjoy more of the friction over his constricted rim.

“Janos,” Azazel says, even more strained.

Janos opens his eyes and looks down at Az’s face. He likes what he sees: Az never really looks weak, his expression is pinched, his brow drawn down, his nose is wrinkled and his upper lip lifted. He looks aggressive, like he could start snarling like an animal. Janos loves it.

He grinds his body all the way down Azazel’s dick until he’s sitting on him, then Janos leans forward and plants one hand on each side of Az’s chest. He curls his fingertips so his nails bite into hard muscle and then drags them slowly down the length of Azazel’s chest.

Janos knows it’s too much for Azazel; he loves the pleasure and the pain. He feels Azazel grip his hips harder, feels him try to use that grip to push further into Janos’ ass, but he can’t get far; Janos is already sitting on him.

“Lift me, fuck up into me,” Janos says and slows the drag of his nails while increasing the pressure. 

“Yebat, sadist,” Az groans, but bucks up into Janos as commanded.

Janos closes his eyes again and breathes a long unsteady breath through his nose. He might be sadistic; Azazel’s forearms are probably in agony and he’s drawing burning lines down Azazel’s abdomen at the same time. But Azazel is every bit a masochist because he’s panting like a race horse under Janos and swearing like the sailor he sometimes is.

It’s a combination of things that bring Janos to the edge: Azazel’s power, his ferocity, his stamina, his ability to be dominated like this. Janos can get off on just the way Azazel trusts him.

Janos brings his fingernails down the rest of Azazel’s body in one hard jag and leans back to receive the resulting mad pull of Az’s hands and the thrusts of his cock against Janos’ prostate. It’s a good, hard frenzy of fucking he unleashes from Azazel and he takes the teeth-rattling violence of it like a man that loves finding himself in the fury of a hurricane.

Azazel’s hands are as hard on Janos’ hips as Azazel’s hips are on Janos’ ass. Janos can’t harness the storm but he can direct it and in the violent rocking and the turbulent lift, Janos feels himself begin to shake apart.

He leans far back, throat showing to the ceiling and the backs of his hands brushing against the bed below Azazel’s jutting knees. Azazel is wild and relentless. Janos closes his eyes but his lips part and his chin juts in a sensual form of stubbornness. He comes even as he rides out the storm he raised himself.

It’s always good when it’s Azazel he has sex with; he can let his guard down and let his pleasure take its natural course. Azazel comes right after and the lack of synchronicity is a discomfort Janos allows him. The other thing he allows Az is the privilege to come inside of him; it’s something he’s willingly granted no other lover. He thinks of it as a sacrilegious baptism to blot out those who were there before. It took time to get used to and it still feels dirty to him, but he prefers it despite the filthiness.

Heart racing, orgasmic throes fading, Janos waits for Az to pull out before finally falling back onto Az’s knees. It’s a good position; he can look down his sweat-slick body and over Azazel’s to see him recover his breath.

The downside to going bareback, however, is that just when Janos would most like to sit up and fall forward, to give in to his weaker feelings and hold Az and be held by him, is when he has to disengage and head for the bathroom. Janos sighs heavily, clenches to keep Azazel’s semen from spilling out and climbs from Azazel’s warm body and off the bed.

Az reaches a hand out, caresses Janos’ arm as he goes. He likes to touch, Azazel, and Janos likes being touched by him, but even so, it’s also sometimes better to keep some distance. 

* * *

 

_**Photographs** _

It’s late and Janos is sleepy from dancing and alcohol, he looks he’d like to sit down but snow has rendered traffic bad enough that Azazel has guided them to the subway. The cars are filthy and lousy with drunks of all types. Luckily for Janos, Azazel grew up in Siberia and doesn’t mind the cold as much; he sheds his overcoat across the seats and pulls Janos down to sit. 

It’s the New York subway; even with an arm around Janos to hold him close, nobody is going to give them a second glance. Janos seems to realize and leans his warm weight against Azazel’s side, his eyes drifting shut. Azazel is tempted to let Janos doze, but under the influence of a few drinks, Janos is usually hard to rouse and short-tempered when he is.

“No sleeping,” Azazel says and shakes Janos lightly. “You will get headache.”

Janos lifts his head, straightens his body, and squares his shoulders. He doesn’t fool Azazel for a second; even with stiff posture Janos needs something to distract him or he’ll nod off. As Azazel watches Janos begins to tip back toward the window, but with his arm around him, Azazel keeps him from falling back against the seat.

“Yanochka.”

The left side of Janos’ upper lip lifts in irritation. He turns his head to look the short distance to Azazel’s face. However, he says nothing, which means he’s reading the other passengers as too quiet a crowd to open his mouth and talk.  
Nobody is looking at them, though, so Azazel reaches up and threads his fingers through the hair at the back of Janos’ neck. It’s growing back nicely, if too slow for Janos’ taste. “You had fun?”

The look of irritation melts away from Janos’ mouth first, so for a moment he seems to have an evil grin on his face. “One night I want to dance with _you_.”

“Ah, but the girls are so happy to dance with you.” If they were men Azazel wouldn’t have been able to handle it. He actually likes it when women dance with Janos; it’s sexy. Besides, it isn’t like there’s anything to fear when Janos is far more interested in cocks than he is hens. “They are safe.”

Janos snorts inelegantly for a change. “Are they?”

Azazel tightens his arm around Janos’ shoulders and chuckles quietly. “If they are with me it is like Beauty and the Beast.”

“You will eat them?” Janos says, now with an air of condescending humor. He slips the arm that was pressed to Azazel’s side around Azazel’s waist and rests a warm hand on the opposite hip. Azazel doubts the placement of Janos’ hand is accidental; underneath his palm, right next to the jut of his hip bone, is Janos’ favorite place to leave large, welt-like hickeys. Beneath the layers of his suiting there’s one now and it aches with the pressure.

“That is all you can say?” Azazel replies with false derision. “I gave you opportunity to say I am no beast.”

Janos gives one of his more haughty smirks and uses his thumb to press circular motions over Az’s hipbone. “But you must be a beast. Every beauty needs his beast to be complete.”

Azazel laughs despite himself and lays his free hand heavily over the hand on his hip. “And yet it is you that likes to eat people.”

“I am a beast on the inside,” Janos says and spreads his fingers so Azazel can move his own fingers into the gaps.

It’s easy enough to pull Janos’ hand up to kiss his wrist. When Azazel turns his face up again he finds that Janos has pulled out his phone and called up the camera app. He holds the phone away from them and blind-shoots a picture.

He takes his hand back from Azazel and opens up the photo gallery to the picture he just took and holds the phone between them to look at it. Janos has hundreds of these; he’s always taking pictures of himself, Azazel, or the two of them together. This one is slightly out of focus but Azazel thinks he still looks murderous and Janos looks like he’s about to spit on the camera in disdain.

“Send me that one,” Azazel says. “Is best I have seen.”

The smile Janos gives in reply is a dazzling rare thing that only shows up under the influence of alcohol and the occasional illegal substance. (Azazel is under the impression Janos has ceased using the latter.) He adds Azazel and Raven as recipients to the picture and sends it.

After that they have a transfer and then another few stops before the closest stop to Azazel’s hotel. It will be easier to rendezvous when Janos finds a new apartment, but as yet he hasn’t found enough affordable options to even begin to narrow things down. There are too many people with too little ability to be trusted for Janos to take up any of the better offers that come with unwritten strings attached. New York’s world of beauty is just as ugly as Azazel had anticipated, but at least it isn’t London, Berlin, or Moscow. Azazel wishes it was Barcelona or Madrid, but those are cities that Janos never reacts well to unless the topic is football.

It’s a trick to keep Janos from nodding off in the next train even though it’s only a few stops, but Azazel manages. On the way to the hotel he goes the extra mile and sweeps a fistful of snow off a parked car and shoves it under Janos’ scarf. The following snow-filled altercation delays their journey to the hotel fifteen minutes and only ends when a truce is mutually called (though Janos fakes the first truce to deliver two handfuls of snow to Azazel’s face).

Their coats drip puddles in the hotel elevator. Azazel doesn’t mind; it means they’ll spend the next day indoors waiting for the coats to dry. There’s nothing better than being stuck in a hotel room with Janos. The sex is deliriously good, there’s usually plenty of horseplay when they aren’t fucking, and there are always movies or sports events to catch up on.

In the shower Azazel thinks about getting an early start on the sex, but Janos demurs: he needs to do his nightly skin care regimen and he doubts he’ll be able to stay awake for it if they fuck in the shower. Azazel ends up on the bed looking through Netflix while Janos goes through his nightly routine. When he gets bored with Netflix, Azazel pulls out his personal phone to check messages and sees the attachment Janos sent. 

He opens the photo Janos took of them only an hour ago. It’s an amusing shot; he saves it and then, in a moment of thoughtfulness, goes through the collection of photos on his phone. Other than the pictures Janos, Raven, and a few from Erik, the remaining photos are from his siblings and siblings-in-law. He has a slew from their November New Year get-together that are mostly made up of nieces and nephews.

He’s still flipping through them when Janos joins him; the smell of his lotions is a welcome and familiar thing. Janos presses a kiss to Azazel’s bare shoulder and then drops back on the duvet without showing any interest in what Azazel is looking at. 

Janos is always good about giving people their privacy and totally vicious when his is violated. Azazel knows from experience to never ask details about Janos’ life in Spain or even before his time in Portland. The time he’d teased Janos about looking like his mother had ended in a slap to the face and two weeks of being totally ignored. He still doesn’t know if Janos resembles his mother or not.

There’s something wrong with Janos’ relationship with his family, but not so with Azazel’s. He’s thought about this before, but Azazel has never followed through. This time, he decides, might as well be different. So he drops on his back next to Janos and pulls him close to look at the phone’s screen.

Janos’ eyes flick to the image and widen ever-so-slightly in surprise. A quick glance up at Azazel makes Janos’ uncertainty clear. 

“They can be very annoying all these kids,” Azazel says. “Most of them are nieces and nephews, but some little cousins, too. Kazakh side of family is big, but most of them are in Almaty.”

Janos shifts against Azazel but says nothing. He doesn’t seem upset, so Azazel reaches up to the phone and swipes a finger across the screen to the next shot. The scene changes from the chaos of a living room packed with people to the more controlled chaos of a kitchen filled with more people and all manner of food. Azazel is in this one, a glass of fermented milk in hand while he talks to one of his Kazakh cousins. 

“Kazakh family is Muslim,” Azazel says, “so they have lunar calendar New Year and make traditional Kazakh dishes.”

It isn’t unusual for Janos to listen quietly, but usually he’ll ask questions about food, especially if it’s something he hasn’t seen before. But Janos doesn’t say anything. Azazel glances aside at him; Janos’ face is carefully blank as he stares at the phone, but his mouth is a thin line. 

This time Azazel swipes to the next picture, this one of several women of different ages and degrees of visible racial divides. “This is my sister, grandmother, sister-in-law, and some aunts. Our grandmother here, she is terrifying, her mother even more.”

Janos stares at the phone and nods but still has nothing to say, in fact, he looks more like he’s staring right through it. It’s the one of the few times Azazel has seen Janos appear to be uncomfortable with something that isn’t in a movie. It's a rare form of emotional honestly when Janos doesn't obfuscate his discomfort like this.

“I forget,” Azazel says and keeps watch for Janos’ reaction, “you do not like kids.”

Janos shuts his eyes for a beat and then sighs. He shifts onto his side to deliver a kiss to the corner of Azazel’s jaw. “ _Que descanses bien_.”

“You as well.”

Next to him Janos pulls back the bed’s covers and slips under them. Azazel takes another look through the New Year photos. Though Janos must have been raised Catholic, Azazel doubts it was his family’s religion that’s put Janos off, likely it’s the intimacy of being shown Azazel’s family or maybe even seeing family at all.

Azazel shuts off his phone and sets it on the nightstand. Janos’ privacy is his own, maybe he will never open up about the things that bother him; Azazel has seen that often enough. Trust is not easy to come by and many people that have trusted family and have been burned, like Raven with her brother and maybe Janos and his mother, don’t ever see other human beings as trustworthy ever again.

Azazel can handle that and he can also, if Janos ever desires, listen.

* * *

 

_Want Janos on the runway for Joseph Abboud? Thanks to[ChadeKelevra ](http://chadekelevra.tumblr.com/)(who scoured the internet for a pic of Álex González growing his hair out) we have Janos in Joseph Abboud._

 

__

 

  _Also, I apologise to everyone and myself for cutting his hair in this story. Worst idea ever._


	5. Football diplomacy [Charles pov] (part one of four)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven could have hired movers to help her and Hank move into their new place in Salem, but she’d rather use moving as an excuse for a get together. Meanwhile, Janos uses the occasion to manipulate Azazel and Charles into a confrontation.
> 
> This entire arc is from Charles' pov, but is Azatide-centric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this was titled Ping-pong Diplomacy, but since the reference is kind of obscure I've changed to Football (soccer) Diplomacy. The idea is how sports can be used as a form of diplomacy.

If it had been up to Charles he would have hired movers, but Raven is stubborn and Sean has financial concerns, so Charles doesn’t spend four grand on movers. No, he spends two grand on airline tickets to Portland. Not that he’s very upset with the arrangement; Erik will be there and Charles has only seen him a week here and there since Erik handed Raven the keys to Quicksilver back in January. Raven says that Janos might be coming to help, too, and even though Charles has already ordered off the menu, there’s nothing wrong with looking. It’ll be good to congratulate Janos; he’s made colossal progress in New York with only minimal use of Charles’ network.

Everything goes well; clouds have cleared but the airport tarmac is dark with wet. Erik picks him up at the airport in Raven’s ridiculous new Mini Cooper. Charles hates the damn thing, but Erik has fun with the way it handles. On the way to Raven’s loft he mentions Raven might have an inner rally driver they should look out for. Charles is horrified and loudly disapproves.

Erik takes his hand off the shift and sets it on Charles’ knee. “What are you planning to say to Raven about it?”

Charles tips his head back and lets it bounce punitively against the passenger side headrest. “I’m going to tell her that I’m terrified for her but that it’s not my place to disapprove.”

“Sounds like progress,” Erik says.

It is. It really is.

The firm pressure of Erik’s hand on Charles’ knee is a comfort after that. The next red light they stop at, Charles unhooks his seatbelt and moves into Erik’s space to wage loving war on his lips. Erik doesn’t stop him until the motorist behind them lays on their horn.

March is a lovely time of year in Portland; many of the trees and bushes are flowering. Charles smiles at all the pink and white of dogwood, redbud, cherries, and roses. There are petals in the air, tumbling down the street, and floating along the gutters. It’s weirdly magical

Eastside seems to have not made any progress in its urban renewal nor lost any, either. The area seems to be at a standstill between progress and decay. The big trucks still pass through and the roads are often just as rough as ever, but nothing has fallen down and the brick buildings are dark and fragrant with recent rain.

Walking in from the car, Charles notices the fenced-in concrete parking lot next to Raven’s building is streaked with so many arcs of black that it looks like Jackson Pollack via burnout. “Erik, did you teach her to do that?”

Erik glances over and smirks. “No.”

“But you know who did!” Charles says and follows Erik to the front door which Erik has to put a little muscle into opening.

Erik shoves the door along its way across the concrete floor. “It was Azazel. Ask Raven about all the money she spent on the Cooper’s suspension.”

A surge of irritation worms through Charles’ gut but he reminds himself that he did actually tell Raven to get a car he wouldn’t approve of. But who gave that Russian asshole the right to teach her to get herself killed?

“Tosser,” Charles says bitterly.

Erik chuckles as he jogs up the ancient wooden stairs. “At least the animosity is mutual.”

“ _Jealous_ tosser,” Charles amends. He’d be far more irritable if he wasn’t watching Erik’s ass as he ascends the stairs. “I will never understand why Janos let him back into his good graces.”

At the top of the flight of stairs, Erik pauses with his hand on the loft door. “Some would say the same of you, Charles.”

That’s a sobering comment. Charles hastens up the last steps and takes a hold of Erik’s wrist to pull his hand away from the doorknob. He steps into Erik’s personal space and takes him by the left bicep. It’s a move that places the heart tattoo directly under his palm and he can see from the change in Erik’s expression that he understands what Charles is doing.

“There are reasons and there are excuses. Your behavior has both, plus you’re making progress. As far as Janos’ ridiculously-named boyfriend is concerned, I’m not aware of any of those things.”

An elusive smile pulls at Erik’s lips. He pulls his wrist from Charles’ grasp as he fondly says, “Hypocrite.”

Charles rolls his eyes, but doesn’t prevent Erik from opening the door a second time.

The loft looks the same and yet different than the last time Charles was here. The mopeds are still there, as is the tacky-looking bar minus most of the bottles, the table tennis table has moved down toward Sean’s room. All the old Asian carpets remain in the area between Sean’s room and the back of the lift’s shaft, but none of the furniture remains. In the kitchen area, Janos’ cookware has vanished without a trace.

Inside Raven’s room Charles’ catches conversation or, at least, Sean’s voice. “I can’t believe you, dude. No, seriously, I didn’t mind changing the address for you and I still don’t mind sending all your mail to you. It’s a little annoying, sure, but it’s the best way to keep you legal.”

The other voice is unmistakably Janos, but he’s speaking too quietly for Charles to hear his end of the conversation. Charles’ mood lightens considerably; he likes both Sean and Janos. Even better if he can hear them and not Janos’ boyfriend; Azazel must be with Raven and Hank.

“Shut up, I’d do it even without that,” Sean sounds terribly embarrassed now. “Just, you know, don’t ever ever _ever_ tell that guy. I don’t want him to five-finger fillet my face.”

Erik doesn’t seem phased by the strange conversation, but he pushes the door closed with more force than necessary. Considering the conversation happening in Raven’s room, Charles supposes the concussion the door achieves is a good thing.

“Good Lord,” Charles says for effect, “this door has never been fixed at all. Two or three people living here and you handy at remodeling and it’s never been fixed.”

Erik tilts his head and fixes Charles with a baleful look that Charles thinks means he’s hamming it up. Charles gives Erik a serene smile which fades from his face the moment Sean’s freckled face appears from Raven’s door.

“Charles, Erik, long time no see,” Sean says. There’s no denying how guilty he looks; it makes Charles feel awkward and embarrassed for the young man. He decides to help Sean out by smiling broadly and sweeping forward to give him a brief hug.

Sean hugs back and laughs a little after he’s released. “Good to see you, man. You, too, Erik. I was just talking to Raven about how everything is changing like dominoes falling or something.”

“Raven mentioned Burning Man this year,” Erik says. “Anything else?”

Sean nods happily and his brassy orange hair bounces about his freckled face. “Yeah, cool, huh? And Janos hooked me up with a couple shows this summer in New York. That guy networks like crazy.”

Perhaps the sound of his name draws Janos out of Raven’s room, but not without a box full of art books. Charles has always noticed Janos is fit, but seeing him do mundane work like hefting heavy boxes makes a connection he hadn’t considered; that Janos’ muscles aren’t merely decorative or utilized only when he plays sports. He’s not attractive like Erik, though. Erik is beautiful in his unconscious architecture and locomotion and Janos is carefully controlled and conscious.

“Janos,” Charles says, and steps forward to help him with the box. “How are you?”

Janos doesn’t release the box, but he smiles, steps past, and sets his burden down on a felt-covered platform dolly already filling up with boxes. It’s not until Janos’ back is turned that Charles realizes that Janos’ hair isn’t in a ponytail; it’s been cut short.

“You’ve cut your hair!” It’s only after it’s out of his mouth that Charles realizes he’s made an accusation and tries to save it. “But it suits you?”

Behind him Charles hears Erik sigh, Sean groan. From the corner of Charles’ eye he sees Sean look up at the exposed guts of the loft’s ceiling and shake his head. “Ixnay on the airhay.”

Janos turns and shrugs, but the degree of curve on his lips has flattened. As is often the case, Janos says nothing, but where he expects at least a greeting of some sort, Janos simply nods to Erik and walks past into Raven’s room.

Thankfully Charles has seen Janos react the same to Raven’s occasional faux pas only to bounce back later. It’s uncomfortable to be on the receiving end all the same.

Sean turns his head to look into Raven’s room and then looks at Charles again. “Snubbed. You better make nice; Janos is making paella tonight at Hank and Raven’s place.”

“He doesn’t usually stay angry,” Charles replies. “I think.”

“It’s not seafood, is it?” Erik doesn’t look particularly worried.

Sean shakes his head. “Nah, we have you covered. No shellfish or pork, though Az totally offered to slay a rabbit for you; there’s a lot of them around the orchard.”

They make pleasantries for a few more minutes, but with Janos continuing to work transferring boxes from Raven’s room to the platform, Charles soon feels guilty at his industriousness and falls in to help. He’s really not surprised Raven has so many art books and massive volumes of art history, nor even that they weigh so much. But it’s annoying in the extreme that she would subject her friends to such heavy labor when she or Charles could have paid somebody to do it.

Especially when many of the boxes are dusty and leave his hands and clothes filthy. He doesn’t mind getting his travel clothes dirty, but they’re less sensible than the clothes the other three are wearing. At least labor is a good way to combat jetlag though, glancing at Erik, he can think of other more pleasurable ways.

Once Erik pitches in with the boxes it takes even less time to get the dolly loaded and then the room is mostly empty. Little remains beyond a few odds and ends that Janos chucks into an orange shoebox and a collection of fake birds hanging from the ceiling high above. Erik and Janos stand beneath the birds with comparable expressions of concentration.

“Ladder?” Charles asks.

Erik shakes his head. “It went with the previous load.”

“You could give Janos a leg up.”

Erik shakes his head again. “I don’t think I should strain my wrists like that. You’re strong, Charles, you could do it.”

Charles looks at Janos, Janos looks at the birds and makes a doubtful expression. Charles joins the two in their staring up at the colorful fake birds; they appear to be tied with fishing line and tacked to the ceiling. Tacks shouldn’t be such a problem.

“If those are tacks, it should work if you can grab one, but I’m not sure I can get you that high.”

Janos looks vaguely intrigued. He takes his phone out and looks at it briefly. When he returns his attention to Charles, Charles feels his face burn as his arms and legs are treated to Janos’ close inspection. Janos shrugs and gestures for Charles to make a cradle of his hands.

What is it about Portland and Erik’s presence that leads Charles into such idiocy? Is he going to do this to show off for Erik? Yes, yes he is.

“This is so ill-advised,” Sean says from the doorway and takes out his phone. “But please don’t let me stop you.”

Erik and Charles both say, “Shut up, Sean.”

But Erik continues with, “Charles needs experience with these kinds of poor choices.”

“Yeah and lightening up looks good on both of you, you know,” Sean replies.  
  
Charles smirks at Sean’s jab at Erik, but his eyes are on Janos, who shows a considerate streak by dusting off his shoes and his jeans in preparation. He’s seen Janos’ catalog photos for Nike and some of those were jumping. Charles is confident he can help Janos get a little extra height and maybe, just maybe, Janos can make the first of three grabs. No way of knowing without trying.

Janos takes several steps back and stands staring at the birds. Then his gaze snaps down to Charles. Charles drops into a crouch and clasps his hands together like he’s going to give somebody a leg up onto a horse. That, at least, is something he’s done before. The idea is to get all his lift from his calves and thighs and not to add his arms into it until Janos is on his way up.

“I’m ready,” Charles says and takes a deep breath.

Janos’ eyes flick to Erik for just a moment and then narrow in concentration. “Three. Two…”

On one Janos throws himself forward; each foot hits the floor once and then his left foot slams into Charles’ makeshift stirrup and Charles lets the weight pull him down like a compressed spring. With weight and force loaded, he throws himself into motion. Charles surges up: Janos and Erik are similar in weight and height and that gives Charles an advantage in timing and thrust. He pours all his power into his thighs and calves and Janos makes equal power by landing in a crouch and leaping up albeit with just one leg.

Between the two of them there’s plenty of power and lift, but the ceiling is high and those long ago days of horseback riding never prepared Charles to think about where to go when Janos comes back down. Because, usually, that wasn’t something he ever worried about; either people got on the horse or they went over the other side.

Janos’ fingertips tap one of the birds and then he comes back down. Janos hits Charles, less like a bag of bricks and more like it’s raining men. They come down together in a concussion of elbows and knees, with Sean whooping in the background. All Charles knows in the tumble is to pull his arms up to guard his face like he would in the ring. It saves him a knee, followed by an elbow, to the face, but not the greater collision of Janos’ body: that hammers Charles flat to the wooden floorboards.

The surprisingly solid weight doesn’t stay long; either Janos rolls off immediately or Erik pushes him away. Charles isn’t clear, but he’s had worse and it’s nice to have Erik right there, pulling him up to unsteady feet. Even nicer when Erik holds him steady against his long, warm body.

“Anything hurt?”

“I’ve knocked my head,” Charles wheezes out and touches the back of his head. The wind hasn’t been completely knocked out of him, but it takes a bit of gasping to get back what he lost. He wishes Erik had left him on the floor a few minutes. “Is Janos okay?”

“Um, yeah?” It’s Sean’s voice.

Charles turns to see Janos sitting on the floor with a hand over his forehead and his eyes squinted closed. There’s no sign of blood on his face, but Sean is crouched next to him looking at Janos’ leg. His pant leg is hiked up over one knee, said knee is drooling blood from a collision with either Charles or the floor.

“Hold on a sec,” Sean says, “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Janos nods and looks up at the ceiling at the birds; the lowest one is swinging freely. Charles laughs quietly to himself; even Janos’ sneer is oddly attractive. It’s somewhat of a shame he’s not interested in Janos at all any more, not in any romantic sense, anyway. Charles knows he’d do better by the Spaniard than his criminal boyfriend, but he’s more than happy with Erik.

“Why did you just stand there?” Erik asks. He’s moved a hand up to the back of his head where he’s started to sift through Charles’ hair to find the knot the impact with the floor must have raised.

“Wasn’t thinking,” Charles replies and winces when Erik’s fingers come in contact with the bump. “I’ve only ever helped people up and over things, not straight up.”

Outside Raven’s room and across the loft the lift buzzes and soon the sound of it rising up the lift shaft echoes around the emptying floor. It’s always been a regular enough occurrence that Charles only vaguely wonders if it’s Raven, Hank, and Azazel back from Salem.

Erik makes a humming noise that probably means he nodded, but with his head down for Erik, Charles isn’t sure. “It’s not bad. Anything else hurt?”

“Not too badly,” Charles says though he aches a bit here and there. “We can check for mystery bruises tomorrow. How are you Janos?”

Janos lifts his hand from his forehead to point at the top of his head instead. Charles has yet to figure out why Janos is being so nonverbal, especially when there are two or more people present, people he’s spoken to separately in the past.

“I’m sorry I stood there like an idiot,” Charles says and Janos waves the comment away.

Charles pulls away from Erik, but attempts to tow him along with a finger gently hooked in one of Erik’s belt loops. Erik indulges him by following. Charles crouches down with Janos to take a look at his head. Janos’ hair isn’t too terribly short, but it’s easy to find the welt on his head with his shorter bangs. It’s right at his hairline and has a tiny bit of skin skinned back to expose capillaries.

The elevator buzzes at their floor and stops. The sound of the gates being thrown back is followed in quick succession by the double doors opening up to let people out onto the floor. Raven must be back but, as much as he loves her, an injury takes precedence.

“It’s not like your knee,” Charles finally says, holding Janos’ bangs back to look at it using light from the huge window. “You might have a little scab there for a couple days, but I think you could hide it easily if you have any shoots.”

Sean comes back in the room with a white plastic case and hands it to Erik. Charles assumes Sean considers Erik the expert in these cases thanks to his temper. Charles frowns and takes the kit from Erik; Charles has plenty of experience thanks to boxing, thank you very much.

Charles fishes out a couple antibacterial wipes and gives one to Janos to attend his knee. Charles swipes another one over the bump on his hairline. Behind him he hears Raven and somebody else, maybe Hank, maybe the evil Russian boyfriend, come in.

“Charles! Hey!” It’s definitely Raven. “Oh, shit. Oh, what happened to Janos?”

“We forgot your birds,” Sean says. “Charles gave Janos a boost to try to get them down but, ah, yeah, they wiped out.”

Raven continues asking Sean about the incident, and then there’s somebody wearing black, but not a suit for once, crouching right next to Charles; uncomfortably close, arm brushing arm close. This near Charles can see the scars on the backs of Azazel’s hands; they aren’t unlike those Erik has, there are just more of them.

Azazel takes Janos’ knee and shifts it left and right. “Straighten.”

“It's fine,” Janos says, but complies all the same.

Charles raises one brow at the first line of intelligible dialogue he’s heard from Janos since they arrived. Judging by his body language, Janos has relaxed considerably since Charles’ faux pas. The bump on Janos’ head isn’t serious so Charles doesn’t bother with plasters, not when perhaps having Azazel there is a form of first aid of its own.

“I don’t think you even need ice for this,” Charles says. “How’s the knee?”  
  
Janos shakes his head amiably while Azazel extends and contracts Janos’ leg a few times.

“No ice,” Azazel says. Seeming to be satisfied, he takes Janos’ heel and sets it back on the floor. “Erik looks lonely, Xavier; maybe you should tend him instead.”

The way Azazel says it doesn’t sound like a suggestion. Charles grows warm with irritation at the dismissal; it isn’t like he has any designs on Janos. Even if he had last year when Erik seemed unattainable, it would never have been anything but a casual thing anyway. But Charles isn’t going to let Azazel get to him, not when he can play games like this on levels he doubts somebody like him will ever attain.

“Oh, of course,” Charles says as he straightens up and looks down at Azazel. “It’s not like these are the kind of injuries that require responsible supervision.”

If Azazel picks up on the insult, he doesn’t give Charles the satisfaction of a reaction; his focus is on Janos for now. “Why are you here on filthy floor for little thing like this?”

Charles doesn’t wait for Janos’ answer, he turns around to find Erik isn’t lonely at all; he’s moved over with Raven and Sean. From the sound of their conversation the birds are going to stay where they are. Charles’ mood isn’t very good now, but as soon as Raven sees he’s free she squeals in joy and throws herself at him.

It’s a shame Azazel is friends with Raven, and it’s hard to know his little sister is moving in with somebody he doesn’t really approve of, but when he is the center of Raven’s glee everything looks better.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she says, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Erik says you had a good flight. Is your head okay? Erik says you have a bump from the Great Faux Fowl Fiasco, AKA ‘It’s Raining Janos’. Does that sound dirty?”

“How can you be this energetic after moving all day?” Raven is always surprising, always making him laugh.

She pulls her head back but keeps her arms loosely around his neck. Despite apparently being wired, Raven has dark circles under her eyes. “We’ve replaced my blood with coffee. And now I have x-ray vision!”

“Why don’t we make this the last load for today and we’ll finish the job tomorrow.”

Raven shrugs. “It’s the last load anyway, between me, Erik, Sean, Hank, Az, and Janos we busted our humps and we’re pretty much done. We have to move Sean tomorrow and we can return the rental truck.”

Charles frowns. It had always been his preference that Raven hire a moving company but when she hadn’t he at least expected to be a bigger part of the move. It feels a little like being left out and while he knows that would never be Raven’s intention, it nettles him all the same. She doesn’t have to know that, though.

“Let’s get the last of this loaded up then,” he suggests and drops a kiss on her nose.


	6. Football Diplomacy (part two)

The drive to Salem is much less tedious than the drive to Corvallis; it takes half the time off-peak driving time and Charles spends most of that dozing in the Cooper’s passenger side seat with one hand resting on Erik’s thigh. When his right hand isn’t needed on the shift, Erik lays it over Charles’. They drive to a mix of Hauschka (Erik’s perennial favorite) and Kronos Quartet (Charles’ standby) with a little Prokofiev and Rachmaninoff thrown in.

Classical music is better for Erik when he feels stressed and Charles won’t deny him that even if he didn’t like it. Fortunately Charles has a wide range of classical music knowledge he’s been happy to share; he’s been putting together collections of music for Erik every month now. Erik's been diligent in giving detailed feedback on each collection; Charles' inner educator exults in introducing Erik to his favorite composers.

The house Hank and Raven have located is not unlike the house Hank was living in in Corvallis. The Corvallis house was owned by the university and located on acres of university test orchards. The Salem house is flanked by conifers and a few larger trees. There’s a flat grassy garden out front but not much of a back garden as an organic apple orchard butts up right behind the property. Raven has told Charles that the orchard owners said that they were welcome to take apples for themselves in autumn as long as they don’t sell them or take more than they need.

It’s overcast when they arrive, but the clouds have risen and there’s sun peeking through the early afternoon sky. Hank sees them pull up and comes out to welcome them; he remains as awkward as ever, but he seems to have a few common interests with Erik and that keeps him closer in orbit to him. Charles can’t really blame Hank for that; Charles has accepted that he’s jealous of Hank’s hold on Raven. He’s even gone so far to admit his feeling to Raven and Hank. Confessing his feelings has made them more manageable; they haven’t gone away but he doesn’t feel the same level of stress he had before.

Thankfully, Erik is aware of the situation and prompts Hank for a tour of the house and yard. With Erik there instead of Raven, it’s easier for Charles to be civil to Hank and after ten minutes they’ve brokered something of a break in the worst of the awkwardness.

They’ve just completed the tour of the house when the front door opens and Sean and Janos come in with bags that smell distinctly of shawarma.

“You can bring it to the kitchen island,” Hank tells them and quickly starts clearing the surface of keys, a collection of tools, and a few bags of mixed screws, nuts, washers, and bolts.

“I’m so hungry,” Sean says, but he’s smiling. “If we’re doing lamb paella is it weird to have shawarma, too?”

“You don’t have to eat it,” Erik says.

“Oh, no,” Sean replies quickly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt Janos’ feelings; I’ll fight for his paella’s honor.”

Janos says nothing, but he unpacks the bags with a smile that one corner of his mouth pulls into a lopsided expression of amusement.

Charles turns to Hank who’s going through the kitchen drawers to find utensils. He’s surprised to see the kitchen is completely sorted. “Did you put together the kitchen all last night?”

Hank shakes his head. “No, my folks came up and helped me move last week. They stayed about five days and my dad, he can’t stand clutter, wouldn’t relax until the kitchen and the garage were up to his standards. He’s pretty fiddly about these things. Raven thinks it’s funny.”

“Raven thinks everything is funny,” Charles says.

Hank pauses with a handful of paper plates and napkins and smiles at nobody in particular. “Yeah, I guess she does.”

Charles tries not to hate him and succeeds, at least, at letting Hank have an unsullied moment of soppy infatuation. Maybe being with somebody with normal parents is good for Raven, maybe Raven loves more than just Hank, but the family that comes with him.

Raven and Azazel show up as the shawarma are laid out on the plates and dressings are already starting to disappear. There’s a small fight over dressings but everything is smoothed out, as things often are, as soon as food is being consumed.

“Do you want to share?” Erik asks over the impromptu meal.

Charles presses a napkin to his lips and then grins. “I thought you wanted the tahini?”

“I do,” Erik says, “but I want the hummus, too.”

Charles is less a fan of tahini but he’s a huge and passionate fan of Erik asking to share food. He finds it adorable. “If you ask nicely, I’m sure it can be arranged.”

There’s a sudden motion from Raven’s direction and a balled up napkin bounces off Charles’ chest and onto the kitchen island. “Charles, you’re being gross.”

Charles winks at Raven and turns back to Erik, but Erik simply leans over and whispers into Charles’ ear. “Share the shawarma with me, please.”

The amount of breath used is entirely inappropriate and leaves Charles thankful they’re eating standing up against the kitchen island. Otherwise Charles would have to excuse himself while his cock calmed down; bad enough he has to conceal it by pushing his pelvis against the island. Of course he shares his shawarma, but he doesn’t notice the taste as much because he’s suddenly busy trying to figure out if they should stay the night as Raven asked or find a hotel.

After lunch is coffee and after coffee what little is left in the truck is moved to the garage or whichever room the boxes are marked with. Charles’ ear is still tingling when he goes out to Raven’s car to get his bags.

On his way across the lawn Charles hears a burst of laughter he doesn’t recognize come from the garage. By virtue of its unfamiliarity, he wonders who it is and takes a small detour to investigate. He’s just in time to hear a scuffle and then see a white and blue football hurtle out of the garage followed closely by Janos. The ball hits one of the big trees and careens back toward Janos; he catches it easily and turns back to the garage with a wide smile. “You practiced?”

Azazel walks into sight, but stays on the garage’s poured concrete floor. There’s a smile on his face Charles finds unsettling. “You have time before starting paella?”

“Of course.” Janos bites his bottom lip suggestively and then his hazel eyes dart from Azazel to Charles. He tosses the football up and catches it. “Do you play, Charles?”

There’s no mistaking the wickedness in those eyes; Charles has no doubt that Janos is up to no good. Just inside the garage, Azazel slides both hands into his pockets and adjusts his footing out to a more stable stance. His head tilts back just a tad, but Charles doesn’t miss the arrogance and taunt of the gesture. Is Janos trying to make Azazel jealous? Show solidarity with Charles? Is he teasing them both?

“I do,” Charles replies, perhaps against his better judgment.

An inordinate number of Janos’ teeth are showing with the renewed force of his smile; Charles doesn't trust that smile. In contrast, Azazel’s expression has darkened like a proverbial thunderstorm.

“But three isn’t a good number for this kind of game,” Charles continues, because this suddenly feels like a mini-Armageddon in the offing.

“Unfortunate.” Azazel’s delivery of the single word is so flat it sounds like he read it from a list.

“Four is better,” Janos says with a nod. He tosses the ball up and catches it again. “I will invite Erik.”

“I don’t think Erik plays,” Charles says very carefully. Oddly, the comment relaxes some of the tension out of Azazel’s posture and that veiled form of approval, in turn, eases Charles. Perhaps the end of the world isn’t nigh at all.

“Don’t worry,” Janos says, “with my sore knee it will be better if Erik is not good; you and Azazel will have a chance.”

Charles stares at Janos. He’s perfectly composed and relaxed, the breeze is tousling his hair, his face is pleasant with a placid smile. He doesn’t look at all like he’s proposed an idea even more ridiculous and ill-advised than Erik’s leg-up thing.

Azazel is also staring at Janos and if Charles was going to nominate someone for the position of most likely to develop deathray vision, he would give Azazel that honor in a second.

“ _Blyah_.”

Charles is reasonably sure Azazel didn’t say anything complimentary, but it doesn’t affect Janos in any visible way. He tosses the ball up again, catches it, and heads toward the house, presumably to invite Erik out. Charles watches Janos’ back for a moment and then scrambles for his phone to send Erik a quick message. It takes a few seconds of forever to unlock the phone and load the messenger but his thumbs are swift and sure.

> _Say no!  ✓_

But is that too little?

> _To Janos, that is. Say no to Janos.  ✓_

Charles fills his lungs with fragrant spring air and waits for the little checks beside his messages to turn blue.

“Are you telling Erik?” Azazel asks from where he continues to stand inside the garage.

“Yes,” Charles says. “I told him to refuse.”

“Good. Does he see?”

“No, he doesn’t. Damn. How hard did Janos hit his head today?”

Charles registers that Azazel is suddenly much closer than he was a moment ago. “Careful what you say about Janos, Xavier.”

Charles’ heart rate picks up in equal parts affront and fear at Azazel’s low tone; it’s not a comfortable division of emotions. “Are you trying to intimidate me?”

Azazel smiles at that. It’s unpleasant. “Trying? No, I don’t think I am trying.”

Charles straightens his posture, bends at the knees slightly, and swallows down the fear he feels as much as he can. He has to believe that whatever sort of illegal things Azazel does, his bond with Janos and friendship with Raven will keep him back. Because Charles’ pride will ever be a problem in situations like these.

“You know, I’ve been wondering,” Charles says, “what kind of name is Azazel anyway? Did you have a goth phase nobody lets you forget about?”

As far as incitements go, it doesn’t make much of a dent. Azazel doesn’t show a single sign of getting angrier, though a tilt at one side of his mouth could be interpreted as amusement. “First three letters of first name and last name. Better than being named after missionary.”

“Perhaps,” Charles says and digs a bit deeper. “What kind of name starts with Aza? It’s usually a god of Abraham sort of thing.”

“Sad you are not only one with unusual letter in your name?”

“No, it’s just odd to meet a Russian with, what, a Hebrew or Arabic name? Are you a Russian Jew?”

“Kazakh name,” Azazel says simply.

“Kazakh? Like Kazakhstan?” A sudden bolt of inspiration hits and Charles starts talking even though there’s a sensible part of his mind that’s horrified by the consequences. “Like _Borat_?”

Azazel’s eyebrows lift in what might be a precursor of death or bland interest. In Charles’ immediate vicinity a brief and crushing social tension reminiscent of black holes settles. The continuing breeze pulls heat off the back of Charles’ neck, the grass ripples, somewhere Sean and Raven are laughing, but none of that eases Charles.

When Azazel reaches into his pocket Charles’ eyes tighten and his hands drift up in a reflex born of boxing and a violent step-father.

All that Azazel retrieves, though, is a cigarette case and lighter. He calmly takes a cigarette from the case and taps it against the case a few times before lifting it up and placing the filtered end between his lips. With a quick flip of the lighter top a flame appears and, using one hand to guard against the breeze, Azazel lights the cigarette.

The entire process takes less than fifteen seconds but to Charles it feels like an eternity to meditate on bad choices and his occasionally faulty brain-to-mouth filter. He has too much pride to take back the (fatal?) slip or apologize; it’s just an association, anyway. It’s not a good one, but it should be harmless.

“Borat, eh? You think Kazakhstan is some far off place of strange, exotic, stupid people with customs like fucking their sisters?” Azazel takes a breath on the cigarette and then blows it out in a long stream that the wind takes quickly away. “Way you are with _your_ sister, maybe you want to immigrate.”

It takes Charles a moment or two to process the comment for what it is and then another to register that his fist is suddenly halfway to Azazel’s face. His fist stays suspended there, held easily inside Azazel’s right hand.

“You think I didn’t hear Borat before?” Azazel says without any trace of anger showing. “Russians love Borat; Kazakhs and Kazakhstanis less so.”

Embarrassed and angry, Charles pulls back on his fist, but Azazel tightens his grip and doesn’t let go. “Don’t ever speak about Raven like that!”

Azazel tightens his grip to crush Charles’ thumb against the index finger it folds over. “Was not speaking of Raven, was I?”

Logic dictates that Charles cede to Azazel; several years of boxing as a hobby is no match for somebody that makes a living ‘working security’ on Russian oil ships. Conversely, anger and pride argue for an escalation in hostilities even if it means waking up in a hospital bed.

Charles is saved the decision by an incoming football. Azazel releases his hand and they both bring up their arms to deflect the football. It hits Azazel’s forearm with force and rebounds back the way it came in a high arc. Azazel holds Charles’ look for another second and then looks to his left.

Janos diverts from his path toward them to collect the ball. Charles had expected to see a look of disapproval or irritation on his face, but there’s nothing from his face to his body language to suggest he’s upset or worried at all. He sweeps the ball up with a quick hook of an ankle and dribbles the ball back toward them.

As Janos closes in he kicks the ball up into the air and catches it and then walks the remaining distance. And, maddeningly, says absolutely nothing nor makes any indication whatsoever that he even saw the altercation he just interrupted. At least Azazel isn’t acting unaffected; his startlingly blue eyes are fixed on Janos like he’s trying to decipher a Rosetta stone.

“Is Erik coming?” Charles asks to get some sort of verbal communication kick-started. He’s used to Janos talking a little more than this and it would help dispel all the tension and anger.

Janos nods.

Charles’ hands itch with the desire to cover his face to hide a frustrated sigh.

“Sean, Hank, and Raven, too,” Janos says a moment later.

Charles thanks the god he doesn’t believe in and begins to relax again. “Three on three?”

“Watching and refereeing.”

So much for relaxing. “I really don’t think Erik plays,” Charles repeats.

Janos shakes his head, “Erik is a man that lives in his body. I think he will play well.”

At that Charles can’t help but smile; Erik is fit, yes. When he’s relaxed Erik has quick and accurate reflexes. Football doesn’t require hands or arms, either, so it’s a better sport than cycling or the crossfit sessions Erik continues to attend wherever he roams. And, of course, as much as Charles enjoys training with Erik, boxing isn’t an option.

Despite himself, Charles starts to warm up to the idea of playing football with Erik. He’s tall and graceful and even if his hand-eye coordination will be far superior, maybe his height and balance will make up the difference. But then, Charles muses, when it comes to stamina all he has to judge is how long Erik can go in the bedroom.

Charles’ face becomes a little warm at the thought and remains so when Erik comes out to join them. Erik stands abreast between Azazel and Charles, but faces Janos. He looks intrigued and watches closely as Janos plays with the ball.

“How does this work?” Erik asks. “There’s no goal.”

“There are goals in the garage,” Janos corrects and tosses the ball to Erik.

Erik catches the ball and begins to move it experimentally between his hands. If football were to employ hands and Erik’s wrists were healthier, Charles has no doubt Erik would have an advantage.

Azazel blows a long stream of smoke over his shoulder. “They are small, so no need for goalkeeper.”

“It’s not really football without a goalkeeper,” Charles says, “but for two-on-two that’s really for the best.” He doesn’t say that he neither wants to fight with Azazel over who would be goalie or to get Erik in a position to strain his wrists by protecting a goal.

“It isn’t really football,” Janos agrees, “but we play by football rules. No goalkeeper and we play forty minutes with a ten minute break in the middle.”

It sounds like a good plan to Charles, but he still worries about Erik’s lack of experience. “Can we play ten minutes without counting the score just to give Erik some practice?”

“I’d like that,” Erik says and tosses the ball to Charles.

Charles catches the ball with a smile. “I thought you might.”

“Of course,” Janos says and then he lowers his head a fraction to intensify his gaze, “but we will beat you and Azazel regardless.”

Charles opens his mouth to retort but Azazel beats him to it.

“We will go easy on Erik,” Azazel says with low menace, “but you get no chances, Janos. You will have no time to even breathe.”

Janos’ eyes are intense, but his mouth widens in a smile Charles thinks is anything but friendly. “Let’s bet.”

“That makes things more interesting,” Azazel agrees. “No money, loser has to do what winner says.”

“Accepted,” Janos says and steps right into Azazel’s space. He lifts a finger and points it at Azazel’s chin. “When Erik and I win, you finally shave that ugly beard.”

It is a herculean effort not to either gape at Janos’ impetuousness or laugh at the insult to Azazel, but Charles manages to bite his tongue and glance over at Erik. There’s a tug at the corner of Erik’s mouth but he does better than Charles at keeping his expression neutral.

“I accept,” Azazel replies. As strange as it is, Azazel doesn’t look insulted at all, if anything, a glint of amusement has come into his eyes. “When we win, you come with me to Omsk.”

Charles has no idea what’s in Omsk, but it’s enough to put a dent in Janos’ bravado. He looks confused for just a moment, but then he lowers his head and his stare becomes even more intense. “Accepted. I will shave you myself.”

“I will buy airline tickets before dinner,” Azazel says with a confidence Charles wonders at.

“You have anything to add?”

Charles turns back to Erik. “Are you being serious?”

Erik looks especially handsome in moments like this, Charles thinks, when he is allowing himself to relax and enjoy himself among his former Portland friends. He likes it even better when Erik drapes an arm around his shoulder and draws him around to put their backs to the posturing of the other couple.

Erik’s shoulders lift and fall, but there’s humor in his eyes. “Do you want me to be serious?”

“Not really.” Charles leans against Erik and places the football in his hand. “I just wish you were on my team.”

“I told Janos that when we were inside, but Sean said Janos was a soccer shark.” The humor in Erik’s eyes makes it to his mouth. “He used to play in Portland for money. If that’s true, I suppose I’m on the winning team, but I haven’t played since high school so it’s hard to say. Janos will have a lot to make up for.”

“At least Azazel says he’ll go light on you,” Charles says and then, just for amusement value he adds, “but maybe I won’t.”

 


	7. Football Diplomacy (part three)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Azazel come to an agreement of sorts.

As uncomfortable as it is after their altercation, Charles forces himself to turn from Erik to join Azazel. Azazel has a determined look on his already severe face and has nearly finished the cigarette he lit up between trading insults with Charles. His eyes refocus on Charles. He blows a long stream of smoke from his nose, lifts a foot to dash the cigarette out on his heel, and places the butt back in his case.

Charles appreciates that Azazel isn’t littering his sister’s lawn, but reminds himself that expectations are low when he’s pleasantly surprised by what should be normal, polite behavior.

“I’m not particularly skilled,” Charles says, “but I have decent stamina and I won’t trip over my own feet, though with the wet ground I expect we’ll all fall at some point.”

Azazel nods. “Wet is not good, but uneven playing surface like this is normal for me. I have some speed, but maybe nothing special. However, I have played Janos many times; we know each other’s weaknesses and strengths.”

Encouraged by the easing, if not disappearing of tensions, Charles ventures a little more. “I guess that makes you our striker.”

Azazel blows another breath like he’s still smoking and looks down at the grass between their feet. “Not necessarily; I should protect you from Janos or try to draw him off. He is better than us both.”

Charles feels his eyebrows hike up. “Does this mean you weren’t serious about being able to beat Janos?”

For a moment longer, Azazel looks at the ground, but then he lifts his head and stares across at Charles. At first his expression seems irritated, only once he starts speaking does it become obvious Azazel is far more determined than irritated. “We can win, but we cannot beat Janos with football skills only, we need strategy. He is fast, excellent stamina, and he has good footwork and balance.”

It doesn’t sound like Azazel is optimistic, but then Azazel always seems grim or antagonistic to Charles. “Do you think if we work on him relentlessly, taking turns when we’re tired, we could wear him down?”

“It is cheap, but kicking out of bounds to make him get ball could work,” Azazel says. “He may become more aggressive if we try that. Janos likes to play dirty and this is why I have to say,” Azazel draws his stare back up to Charles’ face and makes steady eye contact, “I give you my permission to kick, trip, or play him dirty.”

If there are any lingering doubts in Charles’ mind about Azazel’s desire to win, giving him permission to foul Janos wipes them away. 

“But…” Charles says, “why? You’ll look good without the beard, if that’s what you’re worried about. Your bone structure is fine and it isn’t like you’re hiding your scars.”

“I don’t care about that,” Azazel says, with a derisive flick of his hand. “No, Janos is being tricky and for that there should be consequences. Our bet is worth bruised shins to win.”

Charles isn’t sure he believes Az completely about not wanting to lose the goatee, but he can’t really blame Janos for including it in the bet. “If the game gets heated I’ll keep your permission in mind, but mind Erik; he’s been having trouble with his wrists and I’d hate to see him fall.”

Az responds with a thoughtful nod and looks over his shoulder at Erik and Janos. “Erik is proud, if we avoid him he may get angry. Better we hurt his body than his pride, but if we hit or he slips I will be ready to catch him.”

“You’re right,” Charles says with as much of his disbelief sublimated as he can. Maybe Azazel has a decent streak after all. “Thank you for thinking that through so thoroughly.”

Azazel’s shoulders jerk in a brief shrug. “I like Erik.”

Charles couldn’t ask for a better opening. It might be the only one he ever gets, so he seizes it. “Have you considered that I don’t mind you liking Erik?”

Azazel turns back to Charles with narrowed eyes. “I have never wanted to fuck Erik and Erik has never wanted to fuck Janos.”

The hypocrisy of the statement strikes Charles hard, but he can understand it; Azazel is both much older and far less attractive and there was, at one time, a physical attraction between Charles and Janos. In the end, Charles thinks, it might be best to keep things civil with Azazel and not try for better relations for fear of attaining something worse.

“I see,” Charles says carefully.

“Except this game,” Azazel says, “you keep your distance. This game is one and only time you ride his ass.”

Charles chokes for just a moment. “Figuratively speaking.”

“If you think it will help us win,” Azazel says and looks over his shoulder again toward Janos and Erik, “I don’t care if you slap his ass. By now you are smart enough to fear me, Xavier; I can trust your fear.”

* * *

Hank comes out soon after from the garage, two small shooting goals over one shoulder. He looks the front yard over and, without consulting anyone, places the goal half way between the street and the house, not far from the concrete driveway. The other he takes to the edge of the property not far from where a sagging and rusted chain link fence acts as demarcation.

It doesn’t take him long to place the goals and to come back over to Charles and Azazel. Charles assumes it’s because Janos is still showing Erik a few moves and explaining rules and concepts of the game. It’s no surprise he stands on Charles’ side rather than Azazel’s.

“I hear Janos is really good,” Hank says, perhaps a tad nervously.

Charles schools himself not to take his frustrations with Azazel out on Hank and speaks as gently as he can. “You must play if you have those goals. Would you like to trade in for Erik or me?”

Hank shakes his head, “It would be fun, but I haven’t played seriously since middle school. The goals and the ball are for when my cousins visit. Anyway, Sean and I will referee, but I don’t think you guys will really need us.”

Azazel snorts in derision. Charles is inclined to agree with Azazel on this despite himself.

They start the practice soon after and Charles quickly comes to doubt his stamina, though it was Azazel that was smoking not fifteen minutes earlier. The other three are all within inches of the same height and, though he is fast, Charles’ legs are much shorter; he has to work to keep up. Of course he sees some advantages to his shorter stride, he can change direction faster and he’s quicker to guard the ball. Also, he doesn’t have as far to fall when he slips on the grass.

There are a lot of considerations, he learns, to playing on a lawn and it’s not just the tree that’s part of their pitch. A lawn is uneven, full of dips and bumps, and thanks to the weather, the grass is slippery. He’s not the only one that slides across the grass and he’s not the only one who falls, either.

Mostly, though, he divides his attention between Erik and Janos: Janos for business and Erik for pleasure and a little caution. Janos was right about Erik picking up the sport quickly, but he lacks the coordination that only comes with long practice. 

Charles harries him a bit here and there, crowds against him, and finally forces him into a standoff where he can get in close and kick the ball out from him. He succeeds in kicking the ball to the side; Janos intercepts it and pops it back at them at chest height. Charles backs off to see what Erik will do with it. Erik shows he’s either watched football or has natural instincts; he stops the ball with his chest and kicks it back to Janos when it hits the ground.

The ten minutes pass quickly and in that time they all agree that Erik’s passing and dribbling skills are decent enough. Privately, Charles is starting to think Erik and Janos might not have a chance; football is built in its passing game and even if Janos is tricky or accurate, he and Azazel both know the ball has to pass to Erik.

Sean and Raven are waiting with Hank when they finish. Raven has an arm around Hank’s waist and a thumb hooked over his belt. Charles rolls his eyes, but he doubts anyone knows why so it’s a safe enough expression. Sean keeps rocking back and forth on his heels; it’s easy to see he’s excited as he calls the four of them over.

“Hank and I came up with a couple rules to make things more fair,” Sean says. “First rule, there has to be two touches before you can shoot on the goal. Second, Janos has to shoot from fifteen feet.”

“Sounds fair,” Charles says and assumes Azazel will agree whether he thinks it’s fair or not.

“Fifteen?” Janos shakes his head and points at one of the practice goals. “The goal is very small and there is a tree in our field.”

“Dude,” Sean says, “I know you. Fifteen feet is nothing when there’s no keeper. Knowing you, you’ll kick it at the tree and still make it in.”

“I can accept ten,” Janos says, “because I am good, but the grass is wet and ground is bumpy. Fifteen is unfair.”

“I know you, Janos,” Sean repeats, “fifteen is fine. Az knows you’re a shark, but Charles has no prior experience.”

Erik doesn’t look put out when Janos rolls his eyes and makes a dismissive comment in Spanish; he seems to know Janos well enough to not take any of this seriously. More impressive to Charles is Sean’s ability to stand by his ruling. It’s not the first time he’s noticed there’s more to Sean than his easy going nature tends to suggest. Still, he does wonder what getting Janos’ mail means and why Sean wants Janos to keep it from Azazel. Though, considering Azazel’s malevolent jealousy, it’s likely something innocent enough.

Azazel lets Charles call for the coin toss and nods respectfully when Charles wins it. He does, however, display the sort of unsportsman-like behavior Charles expects by heckling Janos with a comment about how nice Omsk’s weather is in the summer. Janos makes a rude hand gesture but mostly ignores him in favor of giving Erik a few directions for their kick-off.

Sean tosses Janos the ball, it is caught and dropped to the grass and Janos waits for Sean to signal he can start. Then it’s on; Janos kicks the ball a few inches toward Erik and then he’s off like a shot, headed right between Charles and Azazel. Azazel takes off to intercept him and Charles chooses to head for Erik, but to keep an eye on Janos so he can stay between them more or less.

Erik being Erik, shows no fear and comes on strong, dribbles a bit and then kicks. It’s a powerful kick of course; Erik has strong legs from all his cycling and crossfit workouts. Adding an element of unpredictability, the ball hits a dip in the lawn and comes off the ground. Charles tries to get in to block the ball, but he’s too cautious on the grass; the ball goes past and sails at an angle down the field where Janos is already racing Azazel to get it.

Charles has never really seen Azazel in action; he’s remarkably quick on his feet, his long legs eating up ground. Incredibly, he manages to cross in front of Janos so close to take the ball that it looks like a tangle of legs for an instant. Then Janos lowers a shoulder and puts on a burst of speed and shoves at Azazel.

There’s no whistle but Raven and Sean yell for play to stop. At first Charles thinks Janos has fouled Az, but, no, Janos has forced Az out of bounds with the ball. Janos comes in for the throw in and it all starts again when Erik lets Charles and Az block him but then Janos throws far over their heads. 

Erik stops the ball with his chest as he did earlier and shoots on the goal. This time Azazel blocks the shot but Janos is already there and sweeps the ball back, takes a few steps, and in some sort of confusing footwork where the ball doesn’t move at all the way Charles thinks is natural, gets away from Azazel and shoots.

The net captures the ball and Janos runs away from the goal toward Erik, clapping as goes. “That stop was good!”

Charles’ spirits sink. It all happened so fast; forty more minutes of the same will do nothing for his hopes of seeing Janos get his comeuppance for putting him and Az on the same team. Then Charles remembers the fifteen foot rule and is suddenly relieved; Janos was surely too close on that shot.

“You were too close to the goal!” Charles shouts after him.

Azazel shoots Charles another approving look and jogs over to where Janos made his kick. Hank trots over to take a look with him. Though awkward and weirdly tall even next to Azazel’s lean, black-clad frame, Hank starts nodding confidently before he even says anything.

“This is, what, ten?” Azazel asks Hank, but it’s obviously rhetorical.

“It’s about eleven and a half,” Hank says and then looks over at Sean. “Three and a half feet inside, Sean.”

Janos stands next to Erik, arms crossed and a look of disdain on his face. “I didn’t know. The civilized world uses the metric system.”

Erik shrugs and says, “Spain _is_ metric.”

“Janos has played enough to know what fifteen feet is,” Azazel replies.

“Ten, yes,” Janos says emphatically. “Fifteen is strange. Give me meters.”

“No way,” Sean says, “if you didn’t know what fifteen feet was you should have said something.”

In the end, Sean awards Az and Charles the ball _and_ fifteen feet. Raven laughs freely on the sidelines and cheers Charles and Azazel on.

The fifteen feet moves them closer to the opposite goal, but play is hard. Janos has more tricks than an Atlantic City bookkeeper and Erik is remarkably aggressive in play even if he is unskilled. His defensive skills are very good since they don’t involve a lot of ball-play; he does his best to drive Charles and Azazel out of bounds or toward Janos.

Charles thinks Azazel down-played his abilities; he’s more of an all-rounder on the field but excels when he’s in possession of the ball or trying to take it. True to his word, he doesn’t get physical with Erik the way he does Janos. But what Charles never expected is how well Azazel appears to work with him; he learns Charles’ strengths and weaknesses on the fly and plays to both.

They have no trouble making the mandatory two touches before shooting on the goal for all getting it in has been far harder than Charles had expected. Erik and Janos make three goals in the first half and Charles and Azazel make two; the second only comes when Janos slips on the grass and goes down hard.

Even though the first half is only twenty minutes, Charles finds himself breathless and dizzy with all the running and, unfortunately, a few more slips on the grass. Raven brings him bottles of water at the start of the ten minute break and pounds his back joyfully before running past, slapping Azazel’s shoulder as she goes to give Erik the same treatment.

Charles hands one of the bottles to Azazel; he’s been coughing on and off for the last few minutes and is swearing in Russian, though Charles thinks the swearing pauses as Raven goes by.

“Is it the smoking?”

Azazel nods and takes the bottle of water. “Smoking too much recently.”

“Work stress?”

The casual way Azazel had replied turns several degrees colder. “No, Marlboro is too easy to buy here.”

Stress then, Charles muses, but says nothing about it; he opts for a little honest flattery to distract from the question. “You learn faster on the pitch than anyone I’ve played with before. How do you do that?”

Azazel unscrews the water bottle’s cap and swallows down half the water before he replies. “Spetsnaz.”

“Pardon? What does… Spetsnaz? What does that mean?”

Azazel chuckles darkly and wipes the bottle across his forehead and pushes his hair back off his face. “Raven has never said?”

“Ah, no,” Charles says, brow furrowing. “No, she hasn’t.”

“Special forces,” Azazel replies, watching Charles from the side, “for more than ten years. Teamwork can save your life.”

“No, Raven never mentioned that.” Charles doesn’t know which is worse; the Russian mafia or special bloody forces. Maybe Azazel went from one to the other? Both is even worse than just one. Fuck his life, he’d better not make any more thoughtless remarks; Russian military personnel aren’t known for mercy. Charles gestures to his own face. “Is that where you got the scars?”

Azazel nods. “Looked like fucking Frankenstein’s monster; even little nieces and nephews were scared when bandages came off. Military doctors don’t care what you look like, just if you can stop another grenade with your face. So night of Raven’s show? I had empathy for Raven. Be thankful Janos stopped me from breaking your nose.”

This again. Charles’ gut twists and his water bottle crackles in his constricting grip. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the itchy sensation of the sweat drying on his skin, the clamminess of his damp shirt clinging to his back. His first instinct is to draw himself up and deliver a belligerent defense of his actions that night. A defense he knows he doesn’t deserve to give. He draws himself up all the same and lowers the water bottle to waist level.

“I don’t know that I should thank Janos for that,” Charles says, despite his instincts. “I deserved a punch to the face.”

Azazel’s surprise is apparent in the lift of one eyebrow, but he doesn’t get time to respond before Charles continues. “Raven deserves a better brother, but it’s really none of your business. Thank you for caring about her well-being, however.”

Azazel’s other eyebrow joins the first, making it the first, likely only, time Charles has ever seen the him make any expression that wasn’t sarcastic, neutral, or some variation on annoyed or arrogant. “I did not know self-righteous and delusional _pisda_ could change his ways. This is good for Raven.”

“Yes?” Charles says, momentarily stymied by the weird little moment they’re having. There’s been something nagging at the back of his head. Something about how defensive Azazel has been on Raven’s behalf seems somehow familiar. His experience is limited, but there’s only one other person Azazel seems that protective over and it isn’t Erik. “It’s about time I did something good for Raven. But, I wonder, how do I put this…?”

“Say whatever you have to say, Xavier.”

“Azazel,” Charles says with as much caution as he can muster. “Do you fancy my sister?”

“ _Sister_?” Azazel sputters and starts coughing all over again.

Charles feels the strain of his brow trying to climb his skull and his eyes growing absurdly wide. “Oh my God! All this time you’ve been such a twat about me looking at Janos and you’ve been looking at my _sister_! You hypocritical asshole!”

A mouthful of Russian profanity that contains variations on Charles’ name leaves Azazel’s mouth followed by, “Why are you so loud?”

“Because I think your _male model_ boyfriend is ridiculously attractive,” Charles says, now in an annoyed hiss that comes accompanied by emphatic hand gestures, “but I will always be faithful to Erik! And because this whole time you’ve been a complete and utterly unrepentant dick about Janos, you’ve been attracted to Raven!”

“I have never wanted to trade Janos for anyone,” Azazel replies in protest. He takes out his cigarette case and lighter but obviously thinks better of it because he shoves both back in his pockets. “ _Yebat_. My life would be easy if I had caught Raven instead of Janos, but I would not give him up. And how could I keep her after your disappearance, eh? Because you, Xavier? You would have to become fertilizer.”

Charles shakes his head in disbelief and looks away across the grassy lawn to where Raven is standing between Erik and Janos flipping through her phone. Then he glances at Hank talking with Sean, and finally back at Azazel who has turned to stare, with singular focus, where Raven, Erik, and Janos are gathered. 

Usually Charles thinks about how much better Raven could do, but now he feels a little fortunate; there are people so much worse than Hank. Really.

“Fertilizer,” Charles says.

“Fertilizer.” Azazel lifts the bottle of water and drains it before turning again to face Charles. His blue eyes burn beneath his heavy brow, his mouth sets momentarily in a firm if uneven line. “But I am not so interested in bullshit. How about this: if we win, I will back off some.”

Intrigued, Charles lifts one eyebrow. “How much is some?”

“How much do you want some to be?”


	8. Football Diplomacy (part four)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get physical. ;D

The ten minute break isn’t that restful, filled as it is with threats, negotiations, and plans but it feels to Charles like he’s gotten more out of it than the twenty-minute first half. He and Azazel have reached an agreement which has led to a cooperative truce. Azazel’s motivation is two-fold but ultimately with the same result: punitive damage to Janos. Charles’ is in on one half of that, but keeping Azazel off his back would certainly make life easier; he may be annoyed with Janos, but he’s still one of Raven’s friends and an enjoyable person to associate with. 

So it is with a renewed sense of purpose Charles starts the second half. Despite the brevity of their break and little remaining time for game planning, the two manage to map out a few plays they hope can even and surpass the current 3-2 score. 

The game continues to evolve; Erik keeps learning and improving, but the continued cooperation between Charles and Azazel is on a similar curve. The first ten minutes of the second half sees both sides score twice and bring the score up to 5-4. It also sees Janos skillfully hack Azazel’s shins and ankles in furious plays to dispossess or take back intercepted balls; in retaliation Azazel begins to employ the petty concept of kicking the ball far out of bounds for Janos to run after.

After the last score the ball goes back to Azazel and Charles. Much like Janos did in the first half, he taps the ball a few inches toward Azazel and then springs past it down the field toward the goal down by the fence.

Erik heads straight at Charles, his blue-green eyes dark and jaw tight as he comes at him. Charles never gets used to how intense Erik can be when he’s focused on something. However, this is not unplanned for, which is why Charles is running toward the tree. If Erik maintains his current pace, he will hit the tree, if he swerves around it he’ll lose time, if he slows down he’ll be forced to follow Charles behind it. Which, honestly, any of the three options don’t matter if things go according to plan. 

Charles hears the ball take a hard impact and speeds up his last few steps toward the tree, throws his left hand out to grab at the trunk, and uses his grip to make a sharp turn without losing too much momentum. He hears Erik swear behind him as he slides over the grass in his attempt to follow, but Charles is more concerned about Janos pelting toward the ball with sharp intent. Even though the ball is passing closer to Charles, Janos is faster. Charles grits his teeth and races Janos for all he’s worth, sucking in air on two beats and exhaling on the same. It’s a comfortably familiar breathing rhythm from his boxing training. 

Janos comes on fast, halving the distance in mind-boggling speed; it’s nothing but closer, closer, closer and Janos is right on him.

Charles nails the ball. It rebounds off his foot even as Janos overtakes him. Janos doesn’t slow down; he shoots past Charles like he can actually overtake the ball. It flies at the goal with speed and force. The shot looks good; the ball skims over the ground, too fast for Janos or Erik, who comes at it from the opposite angle. It hits the inside of the net hard enough the small structure jerks back a few inches.

A triumphant cry rips from Charles’ throat. They’ve successfully tied the score with less than five minutes to go thanks to his short legs and the tree.

As Erik goes to retrieve the ball from the net, Charles turns to Azazel with a broad grin. Azazel acknowledges the expression but he looks no more pleased than he did before the goal. Charles is disappointed he can’t celebrate with his curmudgeon teammate, but when he glances back at the net and Erik, he’s the beneficiary of one of Erik’s grudging smiles. Charles’ heart rate spikes; Erik’s regard is more than enough. He smiles back and feels all the lighter for it.

They wait for Hank to re-position the goal and for Sean to place the ball for the kick off. Once they’re off the field again Sean signals to Janos and play resumes, but if Charles had thought he’d seen the best and worst of Janos’ competitive nature, he finds himself mistaken now the score is tied. He’s a whirlwind of physical brilliance and seems to have not been slowed down at all by nearly forty minutes of hard running. Once again Charles finds himself surprised that Janos’ muscle is not just for show; he really is an athlete, not a hobbyist like Charles. Little wonder then he was a regular model for Nike.

Everyone else, however, is feeling the brunt of the cardio; Erik is drenched with sweat and has driven Charles to distraction by pulling off his shirt and throwing it in the grass. His colorful skin shines with perspiration; the more the sun comes out from behind the clouds the better he looks. The heart on his bicep looks alive when he runs across the grass, his bicep bunching and releasing as he moves his arms for momentum or out for balance. At one point they crash together and slide off each other, skin slick against skin in an echo of what Charles wants to get up to later in the evening.

As for Azazel, he keeps Janos busy chasing after balls he’s purposely been sending down the lawn and out across the street. After the fifth time, though, with only a minute remaining Sean clears his throat and says the next time Azazel pulls that stunt he’ll remove Janos’ fifteen feet shooting restriction. 

Azazel promptly pulls up a pant leg to display a bruised and bleeding shin. “You watch Janos’ feet closer and I will stop kicking out of bounds.”

Sean huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Dude, I’ve only got two eyes. You should have said something or, like, take a dive.”

“Sean,” Hank replies as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world (which Charles would agree), “other than having a male partner, Azazel is the epitome of toxic masculinity. He’s not going to pretend he’s been hurt.”

Janos, just returning with the ball, catches the conversation and grins brightly at Azazel. Charles isn’t stupid; it’s obvious that Azazel wasn’t going to say anything about all the hacking unless pressed and Janos was well-aware, too.

“Think of it as foreplay, Hank,” Erik suggests, and successfully earns a snap glare from Janos, flaming red ears from Hank, and uproarious laughter from Raven and Sean.

“Is foreplay allowed on the field?” Raven asks wiping at her eyes.

“No.” Azazel says with such grim finality that Sean’s laughter chokes to a stop and Raven puts her hands up in mock fear.

Janos redirects everyone’s attention by handing the ball off to Erik. “Let’s play.”

The hilarity and awkwardness fades away and everyone takes their places again. 

Erik’s wrists may not be in the greatest shape, but he can still throw. He lobs the ball high over Charles and across the field at an angle and arc for Janos to presumably knock it down the field with a head shot. It’s a good, accurate throw, but Azazel is keeping close to Janos and he leaps at the ball just as Janos does. 

Azazel makes the touch: both Janos and the ball. The ball ricochets out into the lawn again, but this time doesn’t go for the street. Janos lands, stumbles, slips, and falls out of bounds. Azazel crouches next to Janos to say something (Charles bets it’s something about the hacking) and offer his hand and Erik trots out past them to reclaim the ball.

Charles stands on the field, catching his breath in the lull between Sean and Hank coming out to discuss if they need to give Azazel a penalty. Janos takes Azazel’s hand and, surprisingly, allows himself to be pulled to his feet. Charles assumed Janos would play up an injury, taking a dive where Azazel has refused, but though his jeans are grass-stained and the heels of his hands are the worse for wear, he makes no indication of faking or emphasizing any injury he has. But there’s a fire in his eyes that Charles definitely wouldn’t want to see leveled against himself.

No penalty is given, but Sean announces time is up and the game is now a matter of sudden death. If there’s no score in five minutes the game will be considered tied. 

Janos takes the ball, nods to Erik and Erik jogs backwards down the field, flexing his jaw as he goes. Apparently Janos plans for a long range throw or something of that nature. Azazel moves back, but Charles is the one to shadow Erik. It’s hard to keep an eye on Erik and Janos, Charles has to keep swiveling his head to see what they’re both up to. When he sees Janos wind up, the ball held far back in his left hand, that’s when Charles knows this is going to be a challenge.

Janos launches the ball with his entire body. It flies fast and presumably true, but in no way does it head for Erik at all. It’s such a bizarre throw that for a split second Charles is stymied, because why throw the ball away? All the same, he forgets about that and Erik and runs in the direction the ball’s been played. He makes it about three steps when the ball hits the tree, rebounds in a spray of bark, and heads down the field toward Erik.

Charles slides across the grass in his effort to reverse direction and only just saves himself from a fall; it costs him precious moments. He swears multiple times as he catches his balance and heads down the field where Azazel is cutting Erik off and Janos is out in the free without Charles to catch him. 

“No, no, no,” Charles growls with each step he takes, speeding down the field even though he knows it might be hopeless. It’s all on Azazel now, he realizes, to save them from so-called certain death.

Erik sees Azazel coming on strong, but has a clear shot to Janos and wisely takes it. Janos, however, isn’t the only one full of surprises; Azazel digs a heel down hard into the soft dirt and lunges to the side at the ball. Charles can feel wind in his mouth when he sees Azazel head butt the ball straight up and then hit the ground in a roll and actually come up on his feet again. Erik and Janos go for the ball and it’s a sudden tussle as the three of them fighting for possession. Charles slows down and waits to see if Azazel can get the ball out. Erik manages to get the kick out, but it’s sloppy and bounces away from the three of them. 

Charles takes another deep breath and starts to go for it.

“Wait for it!”

Charles pauses again, holding on a hair trigger at Azazel’s shout.

And then Azazel and Erik break away from the melee and head for the ball; Janos, however, comes from behind them and hooks out to the right of both Erik and Azazel. Azazel and Erik fight to catch up to the ball; Erik and Azazel are shoving each other hard with their shoulders, trying to force each other away from the ball. Unfortunately for Erik, Azazel seems to have experience with this and ducks and swerves; without Azazel to shove against, Erik stumbles and Azazel shoves right past. 

He catches up with the ball and Charles yells incoherently, ready to receive the obvious pass.

However, that’s when Janos comes in from the side. 

He throws himself forward with one leg leading, body leaning back, opposite leg tucking beneath in a perfectly brutal slide tackle. Azazel swears and goes down over Janos and the ball bounces lamely to the middle of the field, somewhat in Charles’ direction.

Charles grits his teeth and starts running. Erik is already on his way. Charles hopes that luck was on Azazel’s side and Janos’ tackle isn’t keeping him down, because he hasn’t heard Sean or Hank shouting for play to stop. Charles gives it his all; his legs are shorter but he’s maneuverable and he’s tricky. Thanks to Azazel, the ball is closer to Charles but both he and Erik are coming at the ball in the opposite direction either of them want to be coming from and, as yet, neither of them have anyone to pass to.

It’s not a pleasant experience; they’re charging at each other on a collision course as much as they are with the ball. The only thing that gives Charles hope in the face of six feet of intensely focused Erik is that they mean each other no harm and that Charles will get to the ball a split second before Erik. He hopes neither of them goes down in the likely impact.

Luckily for Charles, at the last moment, Erik concedes the ball to avoid the collision. Charles kicks to the side. It’s not over there; they run flat out, side by side, to get the ball. Whether it’s adrenaline or Erik slowing down under all the running they’ve been doing, Charles manages to get the ball first and kicks it down the last quarter of the pitch, hot behind to kick the damn thing in. Vaguely he can hear Raven screaming for him to go, go, go, but Charles can’t respond; he’s within ten feet. He nails it like he did only a few minutes prior and it hits the net. Unbelievable. 

The shock of it hits and he starts to laugh; he went from thinking it would be an easy game, to the reality that Janos really  _is_  a football shark, to unexpected and sudden victory. It’s been an emotional ride.

Less than a second behind him, Erik comes up from behind him and wraps his arms around him. They’re both sweating and breathing hard, but Erik manages to gasp out, “I need… so much beer.”

Charles breathes out relief and in the heady feeling of hard-fought victory. “You’re buying…!”

Erik chuckles and between gasps for air says, “Of course; to the victor go the spoils.”

Reminded of his agreement with Azazel, Charles looks back over his shoulder to locate him and Janos. They’re both standing about fifteen feet back with Sean and Hank. Janos has resumed his neutral expression, but Azazel has a smirk that sends an unpleasant chill down Charles’ spine. They make eye contact; Azazel’s expression doesn’t change but he gives Charles a slow dip of his head. 

Charles blows another heavy breath. Well, there’s that then.

* * *

After the game all four of them want showers, but Charles and Azazel get first rights as the winning team. When Charles is finished he looks around for Azazel to tell him the shower is free, but nobody seems to be about. 

Janos is cooking in the kitchen with a glass of wine in hand and his earbuds in. Probably there’s no music playing. Charles has never seen Janos be unaffected by music and Janos makes no indication that he hears a beat as he works on frying something sweet and alcoholic. Charles chooses the better part of valor and doesn’t ask him where Azazel and the others might be.

It’s easy enough to find Azazel, though, when Charles steps outside to see which cars are in the driveway and smells cigarette smoke. It’s late afternoon and were there fewer clouds the lighting would be that warm glow that casts everything gold. The clouds, however, mean evening is premature and the only warm light is the ember of Azazel’s cigarette.

“Congratulations,” Charles says as a greeting, “you gave Janos his comeuppance and get to keep your goatee.”

Azazel snorts softly and lets a stream of smoke billow up from his nostrils. “And I am off your ass. That must be nice.”

“Very,” Charles admits. “You know, honestly, he’s not my type. He never even presented himself that way to me. There was only one moment after the two of your split up, I suppose, at the airport when I was leaving where he made a pass, but I don’t think his heart was in it.”

If Azazel has anything to say to this, he makes no indication beyond a slight pull upwards of his upper lip. It’s not a smile. He takes another drag of his cigarette and leaves Charles hanging awkwardly for a response.

“Um,” Charles says and then continues as earnestly as he can, “this is me trying to put you at ease.”

Azazel turns toward Charles and slowly exhales the smoke in his face. “Thank you for such generous consideration. I said I am off your ass about Janos; that does not mean you talk about him and you.”

Even though Charles is an occasional social smoker, he waves the smoke from his face in irritation. “Christ, I’m just trying to make things easier for you and me.”

That brings more of an amused expression to Azazel’s face. “I have no interest in trading honesty for ease.”

“I never said you had to be dishonest,” Charles says, his temperature beginning to rise with his irritation. What an ass. “I mean, I’m trying to be reasonable here.”

The curve to one side of Azazel’s mouth grows. “It is the unfortunate fate of people who cling to reason to seldom be happy.”

It takes Charles effort to keep control of his temper; Azazel is as infuriating as Erik used to be but with absolutely none of the sexual attraction. He’s probably being a dick because he enjoys it; Erik at least had been an asshole with reason. 

“Shower’s free,” Charles states without disguising just how angry he is. 

“Ah,” Azazel replies with a satisfied nod, “now you are being honest. I respect that.”

Charles rolls his eyes and turns on his heel to go back in the house to find his phone and call Erik.

Erik, Sean, Raven, and Hank return thirty minutes later with beer. Erik has been good enough to pick up several bottles of Charles’ regional favorites. When he sees Charles’ lingering irritation, Erik invites him into the bathroom to talk while he takes his shower. If he wasn’t feeling so off Charles would be tempted to get in the shower with him.

As it is, he admires Erik without touching him as he undresses and turns on the water. He’s lucky, he thinks to himself, to have somebody like Erik: so different, so brilliant, so handsome and intelligent. Erik is his very own diamond in the rough. Charles hadn’t touched Erik as he had undressed, but he lightly slaps his ass when he steps into the shower. Erik turns just enough to smile at him and then ducks under the shower spray.

“I don’t think that went the way it was supposed to,” Erik says after he’s started to wash the dirt and sweat away.

“What?” Charles asks and sits down on the toilet cover. “The game?”

“In part,” Erik says. “Originally, Janos set us up to lose, but then he must have changed his mind.”

“What?” Charles tips his head back in disbelief trying to fathom why Erik would think Janos wanted to throw the game. “Are you serious? Why would he do that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Erik replies. “We were talking about it in the car. Sean and Raven think Janos was trying to get you and Azazel to work out your differences. Their theory is that you two would win and gain some sort of mutual respect out of it.”

“Hah!” Charles lifts his gaze to the ceiling and shakes his head. “Well, I suppose we did end up with an agreement, but we’re not friendly. What kind of evidence is there?”

“Sean says that Janos told him that in the interest of being fair,” Erik replies, “that Sean should be hard on him. But when he got upset over the fifteen feet ruling, I couldn’t tell if he was faking or not.”

“That’s odd.” Charles thinks back to the incident. If Janos was faking he was certainly convincing, but then Janos had seemed unconcerned about the game until the bet had been made. “Azazel said he didn’t care if he had to shave that awful thing off his face, but maybe Janos was put off by the Omsk business.”

Erik pauses under the shower stream, probably to think, and then resumes movement. “Maybe. Is Omsk in Russia?”

“Not sure, give me a moment.” Charles opens up his phone and fiddles with spelling the word until he gets a promising result. “Oh, it’s a city and an oblast in Siberia. Has some pretty buildings. Boring coat of arms. Hmm, seventh largest city in Russia. Railway hub. Wait, oh, wait… Omsk oblast is on the border of Kazakhstan. Maybe Azazel is as old fashioned as the beard suggests and wants to introduce his boyfriend to the family? No, I can’t imagine it. Russia is not what anyone would call gay-friendly.”

“Not our business,” Erik replies and turns off the water. “I know Azazel has a big family back in Russia and some of them are Muslim so he advises when Janos cooks with me in mind.”

“Hence lamb paella. I wonder how it is, being Muslim in Russia, let alone the former Soviet Union?” Charles stands up and passes a towel to Erik when he slides the shower door open.

“I don’t know, Russia is a huge country,” Erik says and takes the towel. “Chechnya can’t be the only place that’s Muslim.”

“True,” Charles replies in distraction. He’s seen Erik naked numerous times and they’ve had plenty of sex, but it’s been a month. He pointedly looks at Erik’s cock, then up the black stripe that runs along the left side of Erik’s body. 

Erik pauses with the towel over his head; his lips stretch in a slow, knowing smile. “It was nice of Raven to invite us to stay over, but do you want to find a hotel after dinner?”

Charles places his hand on Erik’s cock and nods. “I hope we have energy left after that game this afternoon.”

* * *

Everyone seems to be back to normal by the time dinner is served. Janos is slightly pink-cheeked and keeps insisting that they aren’t really having paella; it’s rice and lamb. Sean wants to know the distinction because Janos has made them seafood paella prepared exactly the same way. Fortunately for an exasperated and likely tipsy Janos, Azazel steps in to save him the explanation with a surprising knowledge of Spanish food culture. Charles supposes there must be a truce between the two; Janos keeps Azazel’s wine glass topped off as diligently as he does Raven’s and Hank’s.

The banter is solid and generally humorous. Much of the conversation is centered on the afternoon football game. Raven keeps pestering Azazel to show her his shins while Azazel pretends to ignore her. Hank finds it interesting that they all decided to use the tree in the field as an advantage rather than as an obstacle. And Charles is losing the debate over who fell the most.

The  _lamb and rice_  turns out incredibly delicious; Charles surprises himself by loading a huge second helping on his plate and demolishing two bottles of the beer Erik bought him. He has to stop himself from shoveling the rich food in his mouth. Erik has a tendency to eat quickly, but Charles can tell he’s struggling to slow down, too; it’s uniquely adorable.

It’s no surprise there are no leftovers, but Janos is the type that keeps serving food even if people are stuffed to capacity, which Raven, Hank, and Sean are. Fortunately, Charles finds he’s still able to eat when the paella plates are cleared away and dessert, a sort of honeyed and wine-soaked version of French toast, is served. When Charles is done with his, Erik sets his plate on Charles’ and they share the last of Erik’s portion. 

Not long after 9pm Charles realizes that between jet lag, conversation, food, and alcohol a hotel isn’t going to happen; he’s ready to fall asleep in his chair. Only his pride keeps him from nodding off, though it’s a near thing. Erik figures out what’s going on the more Charles leans into him; he excuses them under the banner of jet lag.

The house has three bedrooms: one is Hank and Raven’s, the other is already set up as Hank’s study, and that leaves one room for guests. It’s currently inhabited by a wall of boxes, a couch, and piles of linen, but between the three of them they fold the couch out into a bed and make it up. Charles falls directly on it; the springs squeak obnoxiously and that brings a vague memory to mind.

“Raven,” Charles says, “why am I having déjà vu about this couch?”

“Hmm?” She looks over at him while stuffing a pillow into a pillowcase. “I don’t know. It used to belong to Janos, but he didn’t want to take any furniture to New York so he sold it to me on the cheap. Or maybe it’s familiar because Az has a reason to be jealous after all?”

Charles chuckles and shakes his head. “No, but he and I seem to have and understanding on that wise. But did you know, I think he likes you?”

She tosses him a pillow but her smile is not as genuine as it once was. “Yeah, I guess. When we met we both thought he was day two of a one-night stand with Janos and I thought maybe there was mutual attraction. Because, as we all know, except for Hank, I’ve always been attracted to dangerous-looking ones.”

Charles thinks of Erik’s past and can’t help but agree. He doesn’t like it, but he also knows knee-jerk disappointment in Raven is a worse thing. It’s strong, but he knows it’s wrong and pushes it down. He sets the pillow aside and sits up to take Raven’s cold-fingered, but warm-palmed, hand. “I hear Azazel advised you to get aftermarket suspension for the Cooper?”

The troubled look deepens on Raven’s face and her hand closes briefly over Charles fingers. Her brow descends. “Yeah, he did, and I got it. I’m not sure we should be talking about this.”

Charles squeezes her fingers gently. “It’s alright. I think having fun with your car will make you a better and safer driver in the long run.”

Behind him Erik lets out what is likely a held breath. It’s like the whole room has become suddenly brighter and the air more breathable. Standing above him as he sits on the bed, Raven’s smile returns; she squeezes Charles’ hand back. “I don’t need your approval, but it’s nice to have.”

“Good.” He’s surprised to find he means it. “Give me a hug so I can go to sleep.”

Raven bends down and hugs Charles warmly; she kisses his cheek and stands up again. “Do you hate Az a little less?”

Charles scoffs. “He started it, so the better question is if  _he_ hates  _me_ less.” 

The laugh Raven gives in reply is soft and, perhaps, hopeful. “Maybe I’ll ask. Anyway, unless he and Janos end up in a hotel, they’ll be sleeping in the living room. I’m just glad you guys will be on the squeaky bed; their make up sex is loud enough without the springs.”

“Understood,” Erik says. “But we’ll only be staying over tonight if we’re stuck with a squeaky bed.”

Raven seems to take strength from Erik, her smile grows in confidence. “I figured! Anyway, you two sleep well, okay?”

Charles stretches an arm back behind his head to indicate Erik and promptly yawns. “There’s no doubt of that with my security blanket here.”

And, even if it isn’t exactly the sleep of the just, Charles sleeps far better in Erik’s arms than expected. It isn’t every day that he can win a football match and make progress with his sister. Tonight he allows himself to believe that he has earned the warmth of the chest against his back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll return to Azazel's pov from here. ;D


	9. Football Diplomacy: Afterward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to business with Azazel and Janos. Featuring strange behaviour from Sean, Az being bossy, and Janos being Janos. As well as Erik taking a professional interest in Az and Charles being an ass.

Janos takes it well when Azazel gets up from the table to take the wine bottle near his plate. He comes back after he’s put it away and starts collecting the dessert plates. Raven is off with Charles and Erik which leaves Sean and Hank to squabble amicably over who will help wash dishes. Janos is exempt by virtue of cooking in the first place and being slightly drunk in the second. In the end Hank admits he should get bedding ready if Azazel and Janos are staying over.

Azazel looks over at the table from where he’s filling the steel sink with hot water. Janos doesn’t seem to be listening, more absorbed with the last of the wine in his glass and using his phone to edit a selfie for his Facebook or whatnot. Azazel rarely participates in social media beyond a nearly empty account on VKontakte he uses to keep tabs on his niece and nephews. Janos yawns and Azazel decides they could stand to stay the night and break up the hotel monotony. He nods to Hank.  
  
Hank nods back. “There’s only the couch and love seat, but we’ve got a lot of blankets and some sleeping bags.”  
  
“Anything is fine,” Azazel replies, because anything beats sleeping on the frozen tundra back in Siberia. If Janos gets picky, and he often does, he can have the couch.  
  
Shortly after, Azazel is up to his forearms in soapy water and Sean is at his side diligently drying and stacking dishes in a rack near the sink. Azazel appreciates Sean; he’s a good-hearted guy for all his appearance of irresponsibility. Azazel knows Sean, as well as Raven, have been instrumental in the stability Janos found in Portland. Unfortunately, it is a byproduct of Azazel’s face and nature that Sean is the most intimidated by him when he has the least reason to fear as far as Az is concerned.  
  
“Sorry about your shins,” Sean says once the dishes are well under way. “I couldn’t really see and I didn’t expect it anyway.”

Of course not, a nice young man like Sean wouldn’t understand that playing rough and flouting rules is a trait Janos shares with Azazel. But Azazel doesn’t bother explaining.  
  
Azazel shrugs instead. “We won.”  
  
“Yeah,” Sean says, “but I hope it isn’t as bad as it looked.”  
  
“It will be worse tomorrow,” Azazel admits, “but it has nothing to do with you. Small price for victory.”  
  
Sean looks unconvinced but doesn’t try to argue. “Well, anyway, I guess you got your vengeance with that body check.”  
  
Azazel can’t help the curve his lips take. “Not vengeance, but a reminder that I play rough, too.”  
  
Sean’s hair swings with his nod. “That’s a given. Just, um…” He looks over his shoulder at Janos and then lowers his voice. “Just don’t play rough with him emotionally, okay? Like, I don't think his emotional health is the greatest.”  
  
The amount of respect Azazel has for Sean grows stronger. It is one thing for Raven, who has learned not to fear Azazel to say things like this, but Sean fears and that makes him brave. He turns off the water, dries his scarred hands, and then places one on Sean’s shoulder.  
  
“I understand. His work and New York is challenge for that kind of health, but I will avoid making it worse.”  
  
Sean’s eyebrows lift and he bites at his lip in response to the hand on his shoulder, but he looks up and nods along with what Azazel says.  
  
“Cool. Uh, I mean, it’s good to hear.” He looks at Azazel’s hand on his shoulder again and turns back to drying dishes. “He’s like the uncomfortably hot, gay older cousin I never had.”  
  
Azazel nods and takes his hand away. “Yes, I can see where straight men would be conflicted. I was conflicted my first time.”  
  
Sean laughs somewhat shrilly. “Hah! Yeah, but I’m not conflicted at all because not only am I straight but he’s like a cousin. You don’t marry your cousins.”  
  
Apparently Sean is still intimidated. “Marriage is some leap from physical attraction, but I understand. You need not fear me, I trust you with him. I know he is safe with you and Raven.”  
  
A plate clicks against the steel sink as Sean lowers his hands. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and sighs. “Well, I knew him before you, anyway. It’s me that’s gotta trust you. But I think I can. It’s not like I’m his mom or something.”  
  
Azazel nods. “True, though maybe he is like Athena and has come from forehead of his father.”  
  
That gets a smile from Sean. “Pffft, right? He’d like everyone to think that.”  
  
Azazel raises an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly to one side in agreement. They finish the dishes in comfortable quiet.  
  
When Azazel turns back to the dining room table, Janos is no longer there. Azazel finds him in the living room, sitting on the couch wearing a white tank top and a pair of Azazel’s sleep pants. He’s illuminated by his phone’s backlight and surrounded by unzipped sleeping bags, comforters, and pillows.  
  
It always does something absolutely feral to Az when Janos wears his clothes, but Hank and Raven’s living room isn’t the place for that. Unless Hank and Raven weren’t home; that would be different.  
  
“You brought no sleepwear?”  
  
Janos shakes his head but doesn’t look up from his phone. “No, it never stays on when we’re together.”  
  
Azazel pauses to consider and realizes the truth in the statement. Even when they don’t fuck he does have a tendency to strip Janos down to his skin if not his underwear. Who wouldn’t?  
  
“Ah, and you think those will?”  
  
Janos shrugs. “Considering Charles is here, do you want me more or less dressed?”  
  
Azazel sneers slightly at that. “He will never touch you.”  
  
The cast of blue backlight drops from Janos’ face with the lowering of his phone. He looks up from the screen and his eyes lift to Azazel’s face. “I said that but you never believed me. What changed?”  
  
“We had a discussion,” Azazel says with a shrug. He definitely wants to downplay the agreement he made with Charles so Janos won’t suspect just how much he wants to introduce him to his family.  
  
Janos drops both elbows on his knees and leans his chin on the back of one hand. “And?”  
  
Damn Janos and his inquisitiveness. “And I think being with Erik is good for him. Also, he treats Raven better.”  
  
Janos drops the hand from under his chin and gives a minute smile. “That’s good. Does that mean you’re going to take your pants back?”  
  
Azazel walks forward, smiling back with dark intent. He untucks and unbuttons his black shirt as he goes. “I have to think about that.”  
  
He unbuttons the last one and leans over Janos. Janos grasps the open sides of the shirt and Azazel allows himself to be pulled down. He can smell the wine on Janos' breath, wants to lick his lips to see if the flavor remains.  
  
“I should reward you for good behavior,” Janos murmurs, his breath puffing against Azazel’s lips with their proximity. The scent of wine is pleasant against Azazel’s mouth.  
  
“And I will punish you for bad,” Azazel replies and runs a hand through the hair at the back of Janos’ head. He takes a handful of it, but he doesn’t pull; Janos allows hair pulling only in the heat of passion.  
  
Janos’ eyes squint in amusement and a feline sort of satisfaction. He slips his hands past Azazel’s shirt and sets his scraped palms against Azazel’s chest.  
  
“You will try,” he says. He digs his nails into Azazel’s skin as he pushes him away.  
  
Azazel allows himself to be pushed back, a small but malevolent pull at one corner of his mouth his first reply. “No, you cannot kick my shins bloody and get away without it coming back to you.”  
  
“Think what you like,” Janos says, underlining his supposed lack of concern by taking his phone and plugging it into its charger. It’s all a little too casual; Azazel knows well.  
  
It’s still early, only after ten, but he strips down to boxers and pulls an undershirt on. Unlike Janos, Azazel doesn’t consider himself at all for display. He has no desire to share; not his scars, not his old spetsnatz tattoo, nothing, unless it’s for Janos.  
  
Even after all the wine, Azazel is largely unaffected, but Janos had started drinking before dinner so he’s a bit slower, a bit more sleepy than usual for this time of evening. He nods along when Azazel suggests they strip the cushions from the bed to make a rough mattress and zip up the two sleeping bags around them to keep them in place. Janos places all of the comforters on top of that before laying down under a flannel sheet. It’s smart; they’re both like radiators and even though it’s a little cold in March a flannel sheet will be plenty warm with both of them under it.  
  
Janos wastes no time getting under the cover and Azazel is quick to follow and quicker still to push his sleep pants down Janos’ hips. Janos makes no protests, not even when Azazel pulls the pants away and tosses them on their bags.  
  
“You must have thought about it,” Janos says, eyelids beginning to droop.  
  
“Easy decision,” Azazel says. “Sit up.”  
  
Janos huffs but complies and is quickly stripped of his shirt. He shakes his head and lays back down, phone at an awkward angle thanks to the shortness of the power cord.  
  
“Open your calendar,” Azazel say as he lays down next to Janos.  
  
“Stop ordering me.” Janos elbows Azazel ungently but opens his phone’s calendar regardless.  
  
“We need time to get the visa,” Azazel says, “so I think end of May, start of June. You need at least nine days but more is better.”  
  
The phone goes black; Janos sets it away from their makeshift bed. “Not tonight. I can’t think about Russia tonight.”  
  
“Then go to sleep.” Azazel puts an arm around Janos’ shoulders and draws him near. He’s disappointed in the immediate rejection but Janos’ reaction isn’t unexpected; Janos is uncomfortable with mere pictures of Azazel’s family.  
  
Janos turns on his side and rests his head on a pillow, but tucks his head down so his lips are mere centimeters from Azazel’s shoulder. “Que descanses bien.”  
  
"And you,” Azazel replies and pulls the flannel sheet up over Janos’ bare shoulder. Janos is no great fan of cold.  
  
It’s usually Janos who wakes up first, but the next morning it’s Azazel when he hears movement in the kitchen. He lies awake for a few moments, listening intently to sounds and trying  to determine who it is. Too heavy to be Raven or Sean, too unfamiliar with the kitchen to be Hank. So it’s Erik or Charles. More likely Erik to be up first; he knows Erik’s penchant for early rising.  
  
For a time Az considers falling back asleep. Janos is warm and has ended up clinging slightly; one arm is folded over Azazel’s chest and a leg is crossed over Azazel’s. He can’t imagine admitting it to anyone, but he enjoys it when Janos does this.  
  
Still, he can’t sleep with somebody moving around nearby. He takes his free arm and tucks it behind his head. He’d look at Janos’ face, which can be debilitatingly sweet in sleep, but he feels his breath blowing warm on his neck and knows the view would be too awkward.  
  
“Coffee?”  
  
Yes, it’s Erik. Perhaps he heard him moving, too, or assumes Azazel’s light-sleeping. He could pretend to not hear and preserve the illusion of intimacy or admit that he wants coffee and a cigarette. Yebat, he needs to cut back on smoking; normally hard cardio workouts weren’t such a problem.  
  
But a morning cigarette is a ritual of some twenty years. “Yes.”  
  
“One cup or two?”  
  
Azazel listens to Janos’ breathing and feels the rate of his heart, pressed as Janos’ chest is, against his side. He’s sleeping deeply for going to bed so early. “One.”  
  
Not even the smell of coffee makes a dent in Janos’ consciousness. It does however bring another set of feet and the sound of a kiss in the kitchen. Charles. Disgusting.  
  
Instinctively, Azazel uses the arm around Janos to hold him a little closer and tunes out of the English banter. Instead he stares at the ceiling and thinks about getting Janos’ visa expedited and if he should introduce Janos to St. Petersburg or Moscow. Janos is handsome and dresses well, but that’s not unusual in either city. His particularly handsome face, skin color, and facial features, though, will draw attention from curious Russians no matter where they go. But maybe he will be assumed just another foreign model and Az a minder of some sort.  
  
The downward spiral of his mood is interrupted when Erik comes into the living room with a dark blue mug of coffee and Charles right behind. Azazel blows a sigh through his nose and carefully disengages himself from Janos’ sleepy clinging.  
  
He hates the idea of waking Janos up; he’s had weeks of poor and nonexistent sleep and this is one of only a few times he’s seen him sleep so deeply. But coffee and a cigarette would be good, so he pulls away and replaces himself with a pillow. Janos makes a discontented noise but sleeps on.  
  
Acting quickly, Az grabs his sleep pants and pulls them on before taking the coffee from Erik. He says nothing but gestures for them to go back to the kitchen.  
  
“Janos has some trouble sleeping recently,” he comments, though he doesn’t owe anyone any explanations.  
  
“Stiff muscles?” Erik asks.  
  
“Work,” Az says and takes a drink of the burning hot coffee. It’s not a bad cup of coffee for home-brewed.  
  
Charles watches him drink with some weird expression on his face that irritates Azazel. However, he couldn’t have won the bet without him so Azazel swallows his desire to say anything rude with another swallow of the burning black liquid.  
  
“Is that military?” Erik asks.  
  
Azazel’s brow knits and furrows in annoyed confusion until he sees Erik is looking at his arm and the old tattoo he got with teammates years ago. If it were anybody but Erik he’d probably tell them to fuck off. However, Erik is the best of Raven’s many friends so he relents.  
  
“Yes.” He puts the mug down on the counter and folds up the short sleeve that covers half the dagger’s hilt and half the skull.  
  
Erik steps closer and Azazel obliges him by lifting his arm. It’s old and he supposes it was badly done even fifteen years ago. At the time he’d been as drunk as his friends but he doesn’t regret it; he’s always been proud he got into special forces.  
  
“That’s pretty good.”   
  
“It serves it’s purpose,” Azazel says. It was never supposed to be beautiful.

“It’s aged well,” Erik replies. “I like the spread and fade of the outlines. Do you have a picture of it fresh?”  
  
Azazel shrugs. He does but it isn’t in America and even if it was he wouldn’t share it with Charles present. “Maybe I will find it some time.”  
  
Erik nods and drops the subject like the respectful and intelligent man he is. “If it’s no trouble, I’m interested.”  
  
He drinks the rest of his coffee quietly while Erik and Charles talk about timetables and moving Sean’s belongings to his new apartment. But when he goes out to the living room for his cigarettes and lighter, Janos isn’t there. Probably he’s up and hit the bathroom but he thinks he would have seen him go by the kitchen.  
  
Telling himself he’s worrying too much, Azazel finds his case and lighter and heads outside. He’s surprised to find Janos shivering outside in nothing but the pair of khakis he’d worn before bed.  
  
Janos’ expression is neutral for all his breath is coming fast. He’s leaning against the garage’s automatic door with a hand against his chest. Azazel thinks he recognizes this from a few weeks ago, not amphetamine but a nightmare.  
  
Though he had paused when he had seen Janos, Azazel moves again, quickly coming to Janos’ side. He hands Janos his lighter and cigarette case and then checks his pulse at his neck.  
  
“No medication?”  
  
Janos shakes his head. “Bad dream. I didn’t want anyone to see.”  
  
Considering the last bad dream Janos had led to Azazel being head butted and kicked in the chest, Azazel can understand that. He moves his hand up from Janos’ neck to the side of his face. “I understand. Can you tell me this time?”  
  
It comes as no surprise when Janos turns his face away.  
  
Azazel says nothing right away. He takes his case back and retrieves two cigarettes. He places both between his lips, lights them, and sucks then both to life. Then he takes one and offers it to Janos.  
  
“Bad habit, but just this once,” he says. “Charles and Erik are awake but maybe more soon. You have some time to calm down.”  
  
Janos takes the cigarette and places it between his lips. It’s a bit of the cigarette but more the regulation of breathing that Azazel expects to calm Janos down and it does. He helps it along by tucking the case and lighter in the waistband of his pants and slowly massaging the back of Janos’ neck.  
  
It’s cold, but that’s just an excuse for what he wants to do; Azazel pulls Janos to his chest to warm him up. “Don’t burn me, yes?”  
  
Janos takes the cigarette from his lips and says, “Of course.”  
  
“Good.” He turns Janos around so they’re chest to chest and wraps his arms around Janos’ shoulders. Soon after he feels one arm return the embrace. “When you feel better we can go inside.”  
  
“I want to tell you,” Janos says, his voice very small, his accent very heavy.  
  
Azazel isn’t sure if he believes him but he wants to. With his free hand he continues to massage the back of Janos’ neck. “How much dessert did you make? Enough for breakfast?”  
  
“Yes,” Janos replies after taking a deep drag on his cigarette. “I soaked some in milk. Americans prefer milk  _torrijas_ in the morning.”  
  
“Torrijas?” Azazel asks, just to keep Janos talking.  
  
“It’s Easter food,” Janos explains, “but it’s like the French  _pain perdu_  so I think Erik is fine.”  
  
“I think so,” Azazel replies. “You made this with your grandmother?”  
  
This time Janos sighs deeply. “Yes, of course. Sometimes my aunts and uncles.”  
  
Azazel wonders if Janos really had a mother at all, if he learned to cook with his grandmother and had Easter celebrations with his aunts and uncles. “It seems an easy recipe.”  
  
“It is,” Janos replies, “but the bread must be very stale and then it must be soaked for a long time. My grandmother always uses cardamom when she makes it with milk. My variation is sangria.”  
  
“Sangria pain perdu,” Azazel says. “That sounds like late Easter. Easter or not, one day you should cook this for me.”  
  
“You have to stay over at my apartment for that.” Janos finally laughs softly. “Or get your own place. Brooklyn isn’t so bad. I have been talking to somebody about a shared house near Prospect Park.”  
  
“I hope this somebody is discrete.” Azazel exhales smoke and then turns his head to press his lips to Janos’ cheekbone. “If so, I would be willing to pay a percentage of the rent.”  
  
“We’ll see,” Janos says and pulls away. He looks much better and his heart rate is down. “I can go in now.”  
  
“Let me finish this,” Azazel says of his cigarette. “You don’t have to wait.”  
  
But of course Janos does. After he finishes he takes both the cigarette butts and takes them inside to throw away. He leaves Janos in the living room to get a shirt on and goes into the kitchen where Charles and Erik are still standing.  
  
Again Charles gives him that weird look only now it’s more like he’s trying to read Azazel’s face. His annoyance blazes high. Azazel throws out the cigarette butts and then turns to direct a narrow-eyed gaze on Charles. Since this isn’t about Janos he allows himself the indulgence. “Maybe you have not heard I am not for show.”  
  
Charles nods. “I know, but I recently realized you’re a somewhat decent human being and now I’m working through an existential crisis of sorts.”  
  
Azazel sneers and glances at Erik. “I have no idea what you see in him.”  
  
Erik shrugs and offers Azazel back the blue mug. “There’s enough for Janos unless he won’t want twenty-minute old coffee.”  
  
Coffee might be good, he supposes, and takes the cup to the coffee pot and fills it up. He nods curtly to Erik on his way out and ignores Charles completely.  
  
However, Janos surprises him at the doorway so he never makes it out completely. He’s still wearing the khakis but now he has one of Azazel’s long-sleeved shirts on. The bastard.  
  
Azazel presses the mug into Janos’ hands and asks in Spanish. “Feeling better?”  
  
Janos’ hazel-eyed gaze darts past to Charles and then Erik before coming back to Azazel. He replies in his native Andalusian dialect. “Yes, but I think it would be good if you let me do most of the lifting and then we stay up late. Best way to get more sleep is to become exhausted.”  
  
Azazel lifts his hands to Janos’ face and pats one cheek affectionately. “The guy I want to stab in the face is going to be angry when I make you do all the work. But that is fine with me.”  
  
“Don’t stab him in the face,” Janos says with a chuckle and then switches to English. “Thank you for the coffee. Do you want milk or wine torrijas?”  
  
Azazel drops his hands from Janos’ face and turns for the refrigerator. “Go sit and I will bring it to you. Which do you want?”  
  
“Milk,” comes the reply and then good mornings to both Charles and Erik.  
  
By the time Azazel turns back around with the plate of torrijas, Janos is gone and Charles is leaning against the counter pinching the bridge of his nose. Erik is sipping coffee and doing a bad job of covering a grin.  
  
“What?” Azazel asks as he takes two plates from the drying rack. It’s obvious at a glance which of the torrijas is milk; the wine ones are pink. He scoops up three and plates them; they can share the third because one each is too little but maybe two each is too much.  
  
“You’re just…” Charles is saying behind him. “Very sweet with Janos.”  
  
Azazel catches himself from planting a fork in Charles face and purposely takes a plate in each hand before turning around. “Why wouldn’t I be? He’s my lover, it is how that works. Do you think I hit him?”  
  
Charles’ eyes go wide in what is either guilt or dismay. “No, not at all! I just didn’t think you could be nice. I mean, not nice, but affectionate.”  
  
Sometimes it amazes Azazel the weird things people think about him. It puts him in mind of his men when they’re out on the water. “It is lucky for you I do not care what you think about me. Not everyone is as lucky.”  
  
He leaves it at that and walks out into the dining area. Janos is sitting at the table with his coffee, a grin pulling up one side of his face. “Thank you for not stabbing him in the face. You will definitely be rewarded.”  
  
Azazel presses a kiss to Janos’ forehead and sets a plate down in front of him. “I think there will be many displays of public affection today, Yanochka.”  
  
Janos’ smile stretches to both sides of his face. “Today will be a good day.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Coming up next: an interlude featuring Az and Janos' one-year anniversary as a couple._


	10. Interlude: Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back story. It takes exactly one year and a stranger laying hands on Janos at the annual street fashion show for Azazel to figure out the relationship is serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some potentially triggering material in this backstory scene including: sexual harassment, extremely violent language, violence, and rough semi-public sex.

The sun is setting and it’s still hot for Portland, and humid, but Azazel is dressed in habitual black, his suit jacket over one arm. His back is to the brick expanse on the left of Triple Cha’s picture window where shade has kept the wall cooler than the art gallery’s sun-bathed red bricks across the street.

“So are you guys calling this your anniversary?” Raven asks as she hands Azazel a clear plastic cup.

Azazel turns his gaze to the contents of the clear plastic. There’s fruit and ice bubbling up inside something alcoholic. It’s colorful like Raven but with a twist of class that reminds him of Janos’ coveted sangria. “That sounds serious for what we have.”

Raven snorts with a total lack of grace; it’s cute rather than unattractive. “Janos seems to be taking it seriously. I hope you got him something for the occasion.”

Azazel shrugs and watches the fruit rise and then drop, buoyed by slippery bubbles. He always brings Janos something when he visits but he hasn’t come with anything more special than any other time. Why would he? Yes, he enjoys Janos in every possible sense, but mainly he enjoys Janos for as long as he can. There’s no doubt in his mind that Janos will eventually move on; it’s what Azazel would do if he were Janos. There are richer and better-connected men in the world and Janos is the type to find and use them for their reach. Janos knows his worth, sooner or later he'll be better kept.

“Leave the man alone,” Darwin says from beside Raven, “Kamal & Kamal is next and I’m reasonably sure he wants to watch that.”

Azazel nods respectfully to Morpho’s owner. Janos is walking four designs for the designer siblings; two in lounge wear and two swimwear. He’s already been on for the earlier part of the show for the lounge wear and now the sun is setting on the last of the swimwear.

The music gets louder; over in the DJ booth Sean is dancing along as he mixes tracks, his orange hair a wild halo in the lights. The crowd is getting increasingly rowdy, drunk on the party atmosphere and plenty of alcohol. It’s a strange crowd; half of it is tattooed and bearded and the other half is expensive thong-style sandals and loafers. Almost everyone is on their feet at this point.

The sun disappears from the horizon. Azazel takes a long drink of the sparkling wine sangria Raven handed him and then the first model heads out to the raised runway which runs right down the center of the closed off street. 

“Jean! Woooooo!” Raven screams and starts whistling at the redhead with the phoenix tattoo. Her swimsuit is a blaze of gold and green and her skin is smeared with iridescent body paint. She walks precisely, her shell-festooned heels stabbing every beat and her hips swaying on the backbeat. Azazel remembers her from Portland’s thriving burlesque scene; he’s joined Erik, Janos, and Raven on a few outings.

She definitely is Kamal & Kamal’s show-starter. Every person after her has a high standard to maintain. The men and women that follow aren’t bad, some truly amazing, all good at embodying the clothes they’re wearing.

And then in a growing high point in the music Janos sweeps out. They’ve opted to keep him barefoot but Azazel barely notices that or Raven’s sudden screaming or the way she’s seized his arm and is jumping up and down. Because Janos has a presence that can’t be ignored. 

He’s smooth, his skin shimmers purple and gold in the highlights and shadows of his muscles. For fucks sake, Azazel doesn’t even notice the imitation leather kilt Janos is wearing at first. All he sees is the flash of his eyes under lowered brows and the way his hair has been spritzed to weigh it down, but to also bring out the curls. He looks wild, fierce, barely contained, and he moves like clouds roll. 

“Blyahd.”

Raven is still going crazy. Azazel is dimly aware that his jacket has slipped off his arm. 

“You’re one lucky guy,” someone, likely Darwin, is shouting to be heard over the din.

Janos passes them, stops at the end of the runway where he lifts his chin and stares around at the assembled crowd, and then turns and walks back again. This time Azazel manages to take in the whole package but he’s still stunned.

This is totally different from Janos’ shoots. He does the sports catalog work for Nike which requires plenty of action shots and poses. He does editorial-type shoots for local clothing lines such as Kamal & Kamal which require posing in various surroundings. Sometimes he does ads for events and other things, but Azazel has never actually seen him move like this. 

It takes him a moment even after he’s disappeared again for Azazel to process. And then he has to extricate his arm from Raven’s grasp and crouch to pick up his jacket. 

When he’s upright again, still feeling stunned, Raven is grinning like a maniac. “He has one more outfit!”

“That was not much clothing,” Azazel comments obliquely. 

“If he wasn’t gay I would so fight you!” Raven says and holds her drink up meaningfully.

Azazel taps her drink with his own. He can’t even blame her; he’d fight to have Janos himself. It’s a wonder he never has. It’s unbelievable that someone that exquisite walked into Azazel’s life without a fight, without any strings, and remains there. Things like this don’t happen to anyone, least of all people like Azazel. 

And he _is_ exquisite, so much so that an afterimage of his all too brief walk is burned inside Azazel’s eyelids. 

It takes time for him to recover but when he does Azazel notes that he’s seeing many of the same models as before come out. Jean hasn’t come out but Azazel reasons she’s going to be the finale: men are never the finale except in menswear only shows. 

It’s a shame, Azazel thinks, because Janos was meant for that position. It’s also a strange relief, because Azazel doesn’t know if he could handle more. Just to be on the safe side, he drains the rest of the drink. It’s futile, though; his tolerance to alcohol is entirely too strong for America and his tolerance for Janos is practically nonexistent.

It only takes a minute but it seems like an eternity of seconds before Sean’s got the music headed for another feverish crescendo. The lighting is bright and ecstatic and bodies are moving all around like this is a dance club rather than a fashion show. Azazel’s jaw hurts from clenching with anticipation. He has the strongest and most inappropriate need to punch something, but then there’s a pause in the appearance of models. It’s immediately followed by the music hitting higher heights. 

There’s a flash of fire pots on stage and then Jean’s on the stage again. She’s not alone nor is she walking. Jean is festooned in a fiery homage to her stage name: her swimsuit hugs her breasts, comes up to the bustier in gold, red, and yellow, she trails fluttering flame-colored crepe behind her widespread arms. 

Her legs are clad in iridescent scales and she is five and a half feet off the walkway, standing on Janos’ shoulders. 

Raven is screaming orgiastic profanity. Azazel can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching some bizarre movie of his life that doesn’t actually exist in reality. 

The main attraction is Jean, of course, but Janos cannot be ignored. His neck is draped with a doubled up coil of thick rope like Azazel often sees in ports. He’s wearing golden-beige board shorts that reach his knees; they’re sewn with silver chains and rings that form the loose shape of a skeletal pelvis and thigh bones.

Janos has a fire in his eyes that Azazel instantly recognizes; he's challenged and loving it. He’s fierce but he’s also intensely focused; he has to move smoothly to reliably keep Jean balanced even though he has his arms around her legs, his hands  gripping her shins securely. Azazel usually only sees such liquid grace in the Mariinsky or Hermitage theatres in Petersburg.

Janos manages to be a steady conveyance all the way down to the end of the walkway. That’s where he stops, releases her legs, and smoothly lowers and stretches out his arms much like Jean above him. Unlike Jean who has her head thrown back, Janos lowers his head a fraction and stares out menacingly. Where her red hair billows like the crepe streamers on her arms his sticks to his face in wet curls.

Then Janos turns a slow smooth 360 to uproarious approval. 

Azazel doesn’t know that he approves; he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the idea that he’s the one fucking that spectacular human being. Not any of the other handsome and infinitely artistically talented men that surround Janos. No, it’s base and scarred Azazel. What is his life? How long can it last? Definitely not forever, but of course Az will live in this moment however long it may be.

After Janos has paused following his spin, he reaches up to take Jeans legs again, turns around just as smoothly and walks back the way he came, Jean’s streamers and hair blowing around them as they go.

The crowd goes wild, continues to go wild when all the models make a reprise, all filing out in single file and doubling back again. Janos is the most glorious part of this carousel, but it’s Jean that takes the final walk between the two Palestinian designers. 

“It should be Janos,” Azazel remarks to Raven now that she’s finally stopped screaming and is instead turning her palms red with enthusiastic applause.

“If he would look good in that suit, yeah,” Raven replies. “Fuck, he’s incredible! How is he my roommate?! Ugh, I just want to drape myself all over him."

Azazel can relate to that statement. Truth be told, he wouldn't be above sharing Janos with Raven if he could observe, but he keeps his thoughts to himself on that wise. Besides, Janos is gold star gay as far as he knows and Raven has her shy and awkward boyfriend. Instead he kicks off from the wall and turns to Darwin. “You have water inside?”

Darwin nods. “We have Perrier but Alex or Kitty can fill up a bottle for you. If it’s for your man just go on back; I know he'll want the Perrier.”

Azazel nods his thanks and heads up the crowded sidewalk. Sean’s still spinning heavy beats which Azazel knows from past experience will mean there’s either a long intermission or the show is over and is devolving into a street party. Probably Janos has water backstage, so to speak, but Azazel wants to make the gesture.

Morpho is far more packed than Azazel has seen since the last street fashion show when he met Janos last year. The cafe has dispensed with all their chairs to keep loitering to a minimum. It’s standing room only and still the place is thronged and Alex and Kitty are busy taking orders. Under those conditions, Azazel slips behind the counter and takes a bottle of Perrier from one of the sweating refrigerators. 

He catches Alex’s eye in the process and holds the bottle at shoulder height. “Darwin.” 

Alex nods, “Remind him to bring the bottle back or inventory’s going to be fucked.”

“Of course.” And Az is back out, easily moving through the press using his height and instinctive intimidation to his best navigational advantage. The other nice advantage to his height is that Janos nearly shares it; it makes finding him in the crowd easy enough. They’re both several centimeters over more than half the crowd. 

Janos is on the sidewalk, without a shirt or the rope from the last set. The press around him is dense. Unlike the way the crowd parts for Az like a school of fish around a shark, Janos exerts a gravitational pull. It’s no surprise to Az that Janos has to push through; he knows precisely what it is to want to be close to that gorgeous man. But at least when he sees Azazel, Janos’ hazel eyes light up and that damn lopsided smile of his starts growing there on the left side of his face. He turns sideways to ease his way through the press of people on the sidewalk.

Azazel’s lips twitch in amusement; he pauses near Darwin and Raven to wait. He can never get over the experience of having something that everyone wants. 

Next to him Raven looks up expectantly. “Is he coming?”

“Slowly, yes. Crowd is tight near stage.” 

Janos is through the worst of it, halfway between the stage and Triple Cha when he halts, his expression suddenly shuttering. He looks down. There is a hand square in the middle of his bare chest.

Azazel’s amusement drops dead to the concrete. Without a word, he passes the glass bottle and his jacket to Raven. She takes them reflexively but if she complains Azazel misses it completely as he leaves her behind. He unbuttons his cuffs as he moves to clear access to the knives on his forearms. He won’t need them but force of habit is nothing a man like him would want to curb.

Ahead he can see the situation unfolding. The hand on Janos’ chest sports long, elaborately lacquered nails and is attached to a blond woman with a huge rock on her finger and makeup that would be considered conservative by Petersburg standards. She’s flanked by a bevy of friends that are all laughing and trying to look flirtatious. Azazel has no idea what the conversation is, but as Janos pushes the woman’s hand away another falls on his bicep. He can see Janos’ lips moving, probably telling them not to touch him or maybe that he prefers cock to pussy. 

It doesn’t matter what Janos is saying; they’re not listening and Janos’ expression is growing dark and frustrated. He looks up, gestures toward Azazel and Az can clearly see the way his lips form the sounds that comprise the word ‘boyfriend.’ One of the women looks up and blanches when she sees Azazel headed for them. 

Azazel feels a certain darkness gathering around him when he pushes his way through the crowd. He has to keep his head. Janos is trying to get through but even he has to be cautious; Janos is a tall, brown-skinned gay man surrounded by wealthy white women that likely have wealthy white lawyer husbands. Janos likely doesn’t want to risk raising a disturbance that would put him at the mercy of law enforcement.

But just as Azazel gets into listening distance of the shouted conversation, he sees the first woman place her finger back on Janos’ chest and start writing in the body paint. “It’s Anastasia, like the Russian princess, but you can call me Ana.”

“He will call you nothing,” Azazel says and wrenches her back by her wrist which he releases the moment she’s spun around to face him. So much for playing it properly. 

“What the fuck,” she sputters as she takes him in, displaying more outrage than the desired fear. Surely she's been drinking. “Are you security? I’ll have you fired for laying a hand on me!”

“He’s not security, he is my boyfriend!” Janos is livid in his exasperation. 

“Half true,” Azazel says, looking down at the woman who, he sees, is more than a little drunk. “I do work in security, very exclusive Russian security, Princess, but I am also his boyfriend.”

The hint at a Russian mafia connection is completely lost on the woman; she starts to laugh. “No way! Looking like that? Oh honey,” she turns back to Janos, “I’m filthy rich and you can do so much more when it comes to million dollar pussy.”

Janos rolls his eyes; it strikes Azazel that the bitch could say something that tasteless and not surprise him. However, the roll of Janos’ eyes distracts him from the hand closest to him. This time her hand lands with her fingers splayed on either side of his nipple. Janos’ eyes shock wide when she brings her fingers together to pinch it between her fingers. 

Azazel knows, he knows and feels everything that happens next. From his hand seizing the back of her green satin pants to the way his muscles tense and flex as he yanks her back and then, arm primed and pumped, shoves her away from the sidewalk and into the roped-off seating from whence she had likely come. She trips over her Jimmy Choo heels, stumbles past bystanders, and flips over the rope and crashes onto the folding chairs just beyond.

Her friends shriek and scatter but Azazel isn’t ready to be finished. He reaches out and grabs another woman, one that had also had her hands on Janos, by her brown and blonde ombré hair. Luckily for her, Janos throws himself onto Azazel’s arm. “No, Az, let the puta go!” 

Azazel heeds, but then turns his attention back to the first woman who is trying to extricate herself from the mess of folding chairs. She’s definitely drunk and now she’s completely dazed, but Azazel’s fury isn’t at all deterred. That’s when Darwin arrives and places himself in front of Azazel with his hands raised in placation.

“Whoah, Az, the bitch had it coming but this is a bad idea. Real bad. Why don’t you two head around the corner to Erik’s place? I’ll handle this here.”

Azazel nods to Darwin and brings his hands up in a reciprocal gesture. “Just a word with this pisda.”

The look on Darwin’s face is clearly mistrustful but he moves aside just a bit. Azazel steps right past Darwin. He would have anyway; his assumed pacification is only a gesture to keep things clear between him and one of Janos’ friends.

He looms over the rope and looks down at the woman as she finally gets up on her knees. When she sees him her hands come up to shield her face and babble meaningless apologies. It’s an ineffective defense but at least she’s beginning to understand her position. 

Azazel bends down close to the woman and brings his hand right to her face, index finger extended in a gesture of instruction. “Understand that what I am about to say is not intended sexually. And it is this: it would mean nothing to me to rip your million dollar pussy apart and were we not in public you could expect no less from me for touching what is mine in the way you did. Do you understand?”

Now she’s crying. Good. Crying and nodding vigorously. “I understand, oh God, I’m sorry. I was wrong and I’m so so sorry, please don’t hurt me.”

It doesn’t make him feel any better but he’s satisfied she has the point. “Your apology is noted and I will not follow up with my promise this time, but I do not ever forgive.”

And just as casually as anything, he lowers his hand and spits in her face. 

“Not cool,” Darwin says, though Azazel assumes he heard nothing of the conversation, just saw the woman flinch when the wad of spit hit her between the eyes.

Azazel doesn’t bother to explain, he only moves straight to Janos who has been joined by Raven. Raven looks concerned but Janos’ expression is not at all charitable. More importantly, his right hand is still pressed to his chest, covering the assaulted nipple. It renews Azazel’s cold fury; he nearly turns around to go after the woman again. Instead he takes his jacket from Raven and holds it open, an offer to Janos should he want to wear a top to cover his chest.

“I am covered in this shiny stuff,” Janos protests.

“Jacket can be cleaned,” Azazel replies and Janos acquiesces. He turns and Azazel slides the jacket over Janos’ arms and up onto his shoulders.

Raven passes Azazel the bottle of Perrier. “Erik will let you guys chill in the gallery space at Quicksilver, but make it quick before that bitch calls the police or something.”

“She will not call,” Azazel states, “but we should go; other people could.”

To be on the safe side Azazel takes them a block up before circling around toward Quicksilver’s building. On the way Janos takes Azazel’s hand and doesn’t let go. Azazel looks over at him and sees Janos frowning but he says nothing which is far from abnormal. 

They arrive at the building and head up the stairs but before Azazel can open the Quicksilver's door, Janos pulls him past and up the stairs to the next floor. Azazel hasn’t been beyond Quicksilver; there is no posting for a business upstairs. Indeed, on the next landing the door that would lead to another business or even apartment is unadorned and uninviting. The stairs stop there but there is a ladder that presumably leads up to the roof. 

Janos passes the door and pulls Az along until they’re in the slight alcove where the ladder stands against the wall. There’s a window, letting the faint red glow of sunset in, by that light and that of the streetlights, Azazel studies Janos’ face. 

His expression has become neutral, emotions hidden for the moment. He says nothing, but Azazel doesn’t push; he opens the bottle of Perrier and passes it to Janos. 

Janos takes the bottle and turns it around in his fingers for a few seconds. “What did you think of the show?”

It feels unnatural but Azazel attempts a smile; he wants to know how Janos is feeling. “I was impressed with you. How you move, the feeling you gave, your beauty.”

Janos looks up at Azazel’s eyes and then down at the bottle. He takes a drink. Azazel is still learning how to read Janos but he thinks the lack of words is an attempt to manipulate him into filling the quietness for Janos. He’s not sure if that’s what’s best, so he decides to wait Janos out.

After another drink of mineral water and another space of quiet, Janos looks up again. “I wanted to fuck you there on the street.”

“What?” Where did that come from? It seems unlikely to be part of the previous question.

“I wanted to fuck there on the sidewalk,” Janos says. “You fought for me. Maybe it was territorial, but it was also because you were offended for me.”

So it isn’t part of the previous question Azazel thinks but probably Janos couldn’t get that out. Janos often avoids talking about things that deeply affect him. Azazel used to blame this on Janos being superficial, but lately he’s begun to suspect Janos is simply as human as anyone. 

“I will happily fuck you here instead,” Azazel says even if, perhaps, it seems a little bit crude. “Though, I want you to understand, I want nobody to touch you if you do not want it. Maybe what we have is not so serious, but I will cut anyone that touches you without permission.”

Far from seeming to take comfort in Azazel’s statement, Janos’ brow furrows. He takes a step back and then goes to the window where he sets the Perrier on the sill and stares outside.

“I am serious,” Janos says to the window, “very serious about our relationship. I always have been.”

Azazel is relieved Janos is looking away and misses the blank look that comes with the shock of Janos’ statement. No wonder Raven had made the comment about it being their anniversary. She would know, of course she would know; she and Sean are closer to Janos than anyone.

Azazel tips his head back to look at the ceiling; all this time it’s been real and he’s understood it as a fling. Blyahd. How could he know that with the way Janos looks? With the way their relationship started?

“I could have protected myself,” Janos continues, though his voice sounds nothing like it usually does. “I could have gotten away from them, but what you did was better. What you did, how you did it… I wanted you.”

Though in a state of shock, a state that seems to be rapidly turning into a feeling of wonder and a kind of warm euphoria unlike anything Azazel has ever in his life experienced, Azazel comes up behind Janos and carefully lays his hands on Janos’ shoulders.

“And how do you feel now?” It only seems appropriate to listen. For all his interest in Janos, it seems like he has been listening only to him on a single frequency when there’s been a full spectrum of bandwidth Janos may have been communicating on.

Janos turns the bottle on the windowsill a few more times. He takes another drink and then turns around under Azazel’s hands. “Fuck her off of me.”

The night is getting increasingly more bizarre, but Azazel doesn’t question anything. It’s a good thing he keeps prepared for Janos’ propensity for spontaneous sex; there’s both lube and condoms in his jacket.

He leans in to push the jacket off Janos’ shoulders and, in the process Janos leans in as well and lifts his hands to the back of Azazel’s head and pulls him into a kiss. Janos is so eager that his mouth is open before his lips land on Azazel’s. It’s the kind of furiously passionate kiss that only Janos seems capable of and it halts Azazel’s hands completely. No one kisses the way Janos kisses, in a way that makes it always feel like there really is nothing else that can matter.

There’s no telling how long the intensity lasts, only that it eventually subsides enough that Azazel can push his jacket the rest of the way off Janos’ shoulders. Janos keeps the kissing going, sucking at Azazel’s lips and then tongue as he untucks and then unbuttons Azazel’s shirt.

Azazel settles his hands back on Janos’ shoulders and pauses at the strange feeling of Janos’ skin. He feels weirdly greasy and slick. Lingeringly, Azazel pulls back to end the kiss to take a better look at Janos. Of course, the body paint. Azazel lifts one hand up; his palm and fingers have traces of gold and purple iridescence on them.

“This is new,” Azazel admits.

“It is perfect,” Janos replies and strips Azazel’s shirt off his shoulders. Janos is in a hurry and when he gets like this Azazel’s shirtsleeves often snag on Azazel’s forearm sheathes. So Azazel steps back to pull the shirt off himself and fold it over one of the ladder rungs. 

“Perfect, eh?” Azazel smirks. He’s not looking forward to getting smeared with purple and gold shimmer but he’s not going to let it get in the way.

“Everyone will know,” Janos explains, “that you are the man fucking me.”

Azazel’s dick has already been getting hard, but that statement makes his balls clench and his cock jerk. “I like this idea.”

He quickly rips the knife sheathes off his arms. Normally he would leave the knives on, but if this is how they’re going to do it, they have to come off. Glittery, slippery knives are a hazard as well as a disrespect.

Janos uses the time to slip off his sandals and unbuckle the side closures to his skeletal shorts. Azazel’s hands drop to his belt buckle and pause; normally watching Janos shimmy out of his pants is a pleasure but not this time. When Janos drops the shorts to the floor, he’s clad only in the body paint and there, on his chest is written ‘Ana’ and the beginning of a phone number.

Belt forgotten, Azazel drags Janos to him and wipes his hand across his chest, immediately obliterating the offensive letters and numbers. He’s furious once again but has to hold back lest he transfer his hatred of the woman to Janos’ body. It’s true they’ve had a few instances of extremely rough sex, but that isn’t his intention and this isn’t about someone else.

The sex they do have is unusual in that Janos allows Azazel to lead. It takes place against the ladder with Azazel’s pants unbuckled and undone, Janos’ legs wrapped around his hips and his arms above his head, using one of the ladder rungs as leverage. It’s hot, slippery and Janos isn’t at all quiet; even though the noise outside is tremendous, it’s likely that anyone who comes or goes from Quicksilver will hear. 

Janos’ body is burning up, he clenches hard and tight on Azazel’s every backstroke. It’s less like he’s trying to milk Azazel’s cock and more like he wants to keep it from leaving. But while it’s far better than good for Az, it isn’t having the same affect on Janos. Janos’ eyes are shut and even though he’s vocal, he’s much further away from the edge than Azazel and Azazel doesn’t want to come before Janos does. He wants to see Janos’ perfect face in ecstasy, wants to drop over the edge with that sight burned into his retinas.

So while Azazel is often quiet when they fuck, he leans further forward, presses his mouth close to Janos’ ear and attempts to get Janos out of his head and back into his body.

“So hot inside you,” Az starts, “and like tight silk. Yebat, you feel good. Yes, clench like that. Ah, tell me what you feel.”

Interestingly enough, Janos’ vocalising immediately becomes quiet, though his eyes remain tightly shut. He whispers, “Harder, Az, I need it harder. I can feel her on me.”

Janos’ words are unexpected. Their location isn’t the best to give him the rough sex he seems to crave, but Azazel thinks quickly and settles on a compromise. He unwraps Janos’ legs from his waist and slips out of his clenching ass. “Turn around and hold the ladder then spread your legs.”

His instructions are quickly followed so Azazel can push right back inside him with fervor. He uses one hand to yank back on Janos’ hip, to establish a rhythm that borders on violent and reaches around with his other hand to scratch his fingers across Janos’ chest.

“Who is fucking you, Janos?”

“You are,” Janos gasps.

“Use my name,” he commands and presses his blunt nails in Janos’ skin all the harder. “Who is fucking you?”

“Azazel!” Every syllable of his name is punctuated with hard drives of his hips against Janos’ ass. Azazel watches how each clap of their bodies ripples across Janos’ well-muscled ass. 

“Keep saying my name.”

Janos does and in his tone of voice, Azazel can hear him getting closer. If he can’t see his face when he comes, Azazel will not be deprived of hearing it. It’s not quite enough to just fuck Janos hard and scratch his chest, Azazel suspects there’s a specific action he needs to perform. 

“Who is touching you? Louder.”

Janos calls out Azazel’s name again and without scaling back the brutal pressure he’s exerting on Janos’ skin, he again scratches his nails across Janos chest, leaving broken skin in their wake. Mercilessly, he drags his nails right over the nipple she touched. 

Janos’ voice breaks on Azazel’s name and he immediately begins to tighten and thrash in orgasm. 

Azazel snaps his hips and digs his nails in all the harder, trying to catch up with Janos’ sudden release. Orgasm seems to come in a wracking wave, burning down the back of Azazel’s spine and deep into his chest. It’s like pushing a fiery knot of ecstasy from his balls and out through his cock. Azazel comes pressed to Janos’ back, cock driving Janos up on his toes, biting the side of his neck, nails digging deep into Janos’ chest and hip. 

It takes time to recover. When Azazel carefully slips his softening prick from Janos’ body it takes a few more moments to process that Janos is clinging to the ladder with both arms hooked around the sides and hands gripping loosely. His sides are heaving with deep and heavy breaths. 

Azazel removes the condom and tosses it aside for the moment. He wraps his arms around Janos and presses a kiss to Janos’ hair, careful to avoid getting the iridescence on his lips. He can handle it smeared on his body or getting it in his beard, but on his lips is asking too much. 

“Better?”

Janos nods weakly but says nothing. 

Azazel sets his chin on Janos’ shoulder and continues to hold him. He’s still on a high himself and would like nothing more to slip to the floor and doze with Janos in his arms, but he’s not comfortable with their location and the floor is dirty. Holding Janos, though, is very nice and it gives Azazel time to peacefully process the pleasing notion that Janos really is all his. Of all the people he could have, this beautiful man selected him. It’s surreal.

“So, when I am in Russia or at sea,” Azazel says quietly into Janos' hair, “you think of me only?”

Janos’ body calms further and he nods again. “If you are asking if I have sex with other people, the answer is no. I have kissed a few while thinking of you, but nothing else.”

“Ah,” Azazel says and feels his stomach twist. He knows Janos occasionally uses MDM at music parties and that when he uses it he wants to kiss and nothing more, but now he doesn’t like the idea. “No more of that.”

Janos turns his head and huffs, but he’s smiling. “Okay, but you must do the same.”

“Yes,” Azazel says and kisses Janos’ damp hair again. It’s beginning to dry in curls; something Azazel likes but Janos often despises. “I will go down to Quicksilver and get something to clean you up. Maybe Erik will let us use his shower.”

Janos nods. “Don’t take long.”

It makes Azazel uncomfortable to leave Janos there but he pulls his pants up, buckles his belt, and throws his shirt on on the way down the stairs. He leaves it unbuttoned in order to keep all the purple and gold from spreading. 

Quicksilver’s door is unlocked so Azazel lets himself in. Down the hall and in the gallery space, Raven is sitting in the pass through. Her brow lowers when she sees him and she slips to the floor. Azazel takes a left and opens the customer bathroom door, but opts to leave it open for her.

She stands in the doorway while he washes his hands. He’s a little surprised to find skin under his nails; it’s disconcerting but he knows he gave Janos what he needed.

“You guys were really loud.”

“Yes,” Azazel says and starts in on his chest. What else is there to say? Being loud had been the whole point.

He sees her brow furrow in the mirror. “Is that what he wanted? Or did you think you needed to stake your claim?”

If he didn’t like Raven he would consider putting her in her place, but he decides that her protectiveness is a feature rather than a flaw. “Janos’ reasons are his own.”

Her arms uncross and her hands move to her hips. “It was his idea? Sorry, Az, I guess I jumped to a conclusion.”

“Janos would probably like to shower,” Azazel says. He doesn’t acknowledge her apology, unnecessary as it is.

“I think that’s fine.” She opens a cupboard and takes out a black towel and offers it. “Is he okay?”

At this Azazel pauses to take the towel. “I think he is better than before. You know he is sometimes hard to read.”

Raven nods. “He’s been a lot happier since he met you, so you must be doing better with him than any of the jerks he dated before. But I still think it’s a dick move if you didn’t get him anything nice for your anniversary.”

Azazel sighs. “You are right, of course. I will take him shopping for something special.” 

Raven’s face brightens a little. She hands him another towel. “You’re a good guy, Az.”

He takes the towel and doesn’t bother correcting her; just because he’s better than Janos’ past lovers doesn’t mean he’s good. 

When he gets back to Janos he’s wearing Azazel’s jacket but not his shorts; he’s still a mess with lubricant all over his ass and thighs. Azazel spares no time helping him wipe the mess off. He’s careful of Janos’ chest where a few of the scratches and his nipple are oozing blood. Thankfully there’s plenty of disinfectant and the like downstairs. There may even be a change of clothes, even if it's just a Quicksilver t-shirt. 

Much later that night, after the shower, after the parties and dancing, and after a round of strenuous sex, they lay naked in Janos’ bed. It’s warm but the sheets are on the floor and their limbs are still tangled, bodies pressed together. Janos has been less communicative than ever, but Azazel doesn’t push. If something is on his mind, nothing anyone can say or do will pry it from Janos. And, after all, Janos enjoyed himself fully dancing for hours until Azazel finally dragged him away.

Azazel is just about to drop off to sleep when Janos speaks in a sleepy slur, thick with his Spanish accent. “Do you think you could enjoy a touch you didn’t ask for?”

It’s a weird question obviously related to the incident earlier in the evening. Azazel’s too bleary to give it much thought. He shakes his head slightly, “I would stick a pig if they tried and I will cut anyone that even reaches toward touch you.”

Janos is likely too sleepy to be impressed so he just turns in Azazel’s arms and murmurs, “That is a no.”

“That is no,” Azazel replies and pulls Janos’ back against his chest. “I know you did not like that touch.”

“No,” Janos says quietly and without slur. “No, of course not.”


	11. El maleficio de la mariposa (part one of five)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janos’ continued penchant for secrecy sets Azazel’s temper off while Raven inadvertently provides an unexpected solution to a related problem. But how does Sean fit into all this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some sexual content, people getting angry, some self-internalized homophobia

**_The evil spell of the butterfly_ **

Sundays are usually when Janos allows himself to sleep in. When Azazel is off work it’s the one day he will wake up before Janos and either laze about in bed with him or get antsy and work out or pick up breakfast. Back when Janos lived at the loft, Az would even cook for him on Sundays.

So it’s a rude awakening when Janos’ phone alarm goes off at 6am and Janos squirms out of Azazel’s grasp and out of bed. At first Az thinks it’s a mistake; either Janos is confused or he has to take a piss. It’s a mistake and Az can fall back asleep.

But then he hears the shower. Az squints and picks up Janos’ phone to check the time again. 6:01am. Sunday. He squints at the phone’s face, then drops it. Considering how late they were up fucking last night he’s reasonably sure Janos is confused.

Memories of last night coil warm within his gut. He remembers Janos in his lap, towering imperiously above him, the hard pull of his hair, the pain of abraded skin, the endless teasing, and the racking pleasure of orgasm. He remembers, too, Janos falling asleep quickly in his exhaustion not long after.

Azazel lifts one hand to his neck to feel one of the scratches Janos left him and lowers the other to his cock to give a good squeeze. If Janos is taking a shower he’ll be warm, loose-limbed, and easy for Azazel to turn the tables on and fuck into exhaustion once more. That should put Janos back to sleep.

Azazel lies on his back, licks a finger and touches it to the same scratch to feel the sting and starts to lazily work his cock. Getting Janos to relax and become pliant is an uncommon treat for Azazel; more often than not Janos wants to control and test Az’s endurance for his own pleasure. So Azazel takes it slow in anticipation, listening for the water to turn off and the hair dryer to come on.

By the time he hears the hair dryer turn off, Azazel’s balls are aching pleasantly and his cock is fully hard. It gets even better when Janos comes out of the bathroom naked, hair styled, skin flushed pink from heat.

“Come back to bed,” Azazel says, voice a low growl just the way that makes Janos bite his lip.

This time is no different; Janos stops in his tracks and looks at Azazel with immediate hunger. But then his brow furrows and he looks at the hotel clock.

“I have to meet the photographer at seven thirty, so we have to be quick.”

Azazel snorts and beckons Janos with his free hand. Janos comes willingly and crawls onto the bed. Janos is heavy but Azazel still drags him over to sit on his lap, and slips his cock along the humid valley of Janos’ freshly washed ass.

“Sunday,” Azazel says; the simplest and most obvious explanation. “You always sleep late on Sunday.”

Janos places his hands on Azazel’s chest for balance and grinds his ass against Azazel’s cock. The friction of damp skin is almost too much. “Mmm, this cock. Sundays are my preference, not a rule. This morning I have a photo shoot in my underwear at a cold, antique furniture warehouse. You should come with me.”

Despite having worked himself up for a good fuck, Azazel feels a blaze of anger take over. He pushes back against the bed and sits up with Janos in his lap. “Photo shoot? What photo shoot?“

“The one where I move and pose and the photographer takes pictures,” Janos says in an ill-timed attempt at teasing. 

“You knew and never told me?” Azazel doesn’t laugh, his anger rises ever higher. “If I had known you would not have done so much lifting and we would not have stayed up late fucking.”

Janos keeps his gaze low and works his thumbs over Azazel’s chest but shows no signs of changing his mind. “I will take a nap when I get back and we will go to sleep early tonight. You know I have to take every opportunity that comes.”

Janos and his secret-keeping and stupid photo shoots. Azazel shakes his head and presses his palms to the bed to prevent himself from grabbing Janos in anger: Janos is his lover, not an employee. “This is a holiday; not work.”

Janos’ eyes narrow and his hands grow still. “We have worked two days in a row.”

“Our primary mission here was helping your friends move,” Azazel replies. “Secondary was to relax.”

Janos remains in Azazel’s lap but he’s not trying to be sexy now. He crosses his arms and lifts his chin. “I enjoy photo shoots.”

“I enjoy knowing your plans.” While sometimes arguing with Janos turns Azazel on, this does not. “And this is not good for your health, Janos. You need rest.”

“Yes, I know,” Janos says with exasperation, “but I also need work. Tomorrow I will stay in bed with you and do nothing.”

“Yebat, you said that yesterday. How can I believe you now?” Azazel shoves Janos off his lap so he can get off the bed and head for the bathroom. “Go to your shoot.”

Janos doesn’t immediately move from where he’s been pushed, but then slowly slips off the bed. His face doesn’t betray any discomfort or answering anger but his body language is stilted. “Will you come with me?”

“No.” As fascinating and interesting as that could be, Azazel has no intention to absolve Janos’ lying and omission by going with him. “I need time and space for my anger and you need to think about why that is.”

Without waiting for Janos’ reaction, Azazel goes into the still-warm bathroom and shuts the door harder than necessary behind. There’s plenty of hot water and he helps himself to that in an effort to calm down. For the sake of perversity and not a little angry spite, Azazel goes for an aggressive wank; why waste a perfectly good erection? The hot water and endorphin goes a long way to calm Azazel down, but it doesn’t make anything better or really diminish his anger.

After the shower he goes through the usual morning routine. His anger is easier to control, though it’s entirely too easy to whip his shaving soap into a fine-bubbled foam. As usual, he’s unerring with his straight razor, but then there are very few circumstances where Azazel’s ability with edged tools is compromised.

It’s no surprise he’s the only one in the hotel room when he walks out of the bathroom. Janos’ expensive, and joyfully battered, duffel bag is gone as is he. Az had assumed he and Janos would spend a lazy day sleeping in and possibly he would accompany Janos on one of his vintage and thrift shopping rounds in the afternoon.

Waiting around for Janos to come back from his shoot is out of the question. There are always things to do in Portland but even if there weren’t he’s never idle if he doesn’t want to be. Azazel isn’t the type to hang around the hotel and pine nor will he ask after Janos’ schedule; Janos should know at this point to volunteer the information rather than wait to be asked or to blatantly obscure it. In the absence of a schedule, Azazel creates his own.

Azazel is used to idle time on long sea voyages and there are endless ways of filling that time productively. He can work out, practice martial techniques, acquire languages, read, research the latest weapons technology, and keep abreast of what’s happening in his industry. That’s the shit part of his work since leaving the military. It’s nowhere near as bad as being ordered by complete fucking idiots like he was in the military. If there’s one thing Azazel has exulted in since leaving spetsnaz it’s been picking his own battles and winning more than losing because of it. And if there’s one thing you need to win a battle it’s to know the field and your enemy. With Janos it’s like operating in a dark room full of knives.

Fucking Janos, he’s not the enemy, just the opposite. The issue, the thing that makes Azazel more and more frustrated, is the continued secrecy and information gaps. Realistically he wouldn’t be as angry about Janos’ failure to tell him what his plan was for today if there wasn’t a history or secretiveness, lack of communication, and unreasonable boundaries.

Angry, yes, but not the level of anger Az felt burn from his gut up his spine. It’s possible Janos forgot, but more likely he said nothing because he knew Azazel wouldn’t approve. Of course, lack of communication is such a habit of Janos’ that perhaps he simply didn’t even think about saying anything.

Azazel’s anger flares up again and he lets it burn in his chest rather than stifle or bottle it. It’s a bit of a waste to have taken the shower when it’s best he go to the hotel’s gym and work his aggression out again in a productive manner. Before that, though, he takes his phone off the night stand and composes a message. 

> _I have patience about not knowing sensitive things, but your schedule I should know. Holiday schedules even more so.  6:49 AM ✓  
>  _

Two hours later when Azazel comes back to the room there’s no reply waiting for him. He can see the message has been read, but there’s not even indication of a call. Azazel doesn’t let the childishness get to him; he scrolls through his contact list for a shooting range but finds the Portland Opera first. He buys a last minute upper gallery seat.

Ballet would be better; it’s been more than a year since he’s been to the Mikhailovsky in St. Petersburg or anywhere else, but March is the wrong month in Portland for it. American ballet isn’t as interesting, but Azazel is always willing to be open-minded; it’s Janos who insists all ballet is boring and gay. Janos loves the arts and he is, of course, gay. Perhaps it’s the stereotype he wants to avoid. Janos is often caught up in whatever image he wants to present or, in this case, avoid.

The opera turns out to be far better than the last one Azazel experienced in Portland. Azazel prefers sopranos that pierce their notes, not those that warble extravagantly. Clarity is exactly what this performance’s soprano delivers.

When he turns his phone back on in the lobby after the performance there are two missed calls and two messages. The calls are from Raven and Janos, the messages as well, but are an hour apart.

> _I should open up a relationship advice column. Really. I’m glad it wasn’t you being the asshole this time. But, yeah, I made sure he knows he fucked up. Want to meet for drinks tomorrow night?  
>  _

If Raven wanted him to commit murder for her, Azazel is sure he would accommodate any request at this point. She’s good at handling Janos, better than Azazel, but he supposes it’s easier when she’s a friend rather than a lover. He switches to the message from Janos.  

> _Meet me on 5th floor of Incubator at 5:30?_

Incubator is Ororo Munroe’s art gallery and performing arts space and the fifth floor is usually used for private events. It sports wraparound glass windows, its wooden ceilings are strung with fairy lights, and the fifth floor is just high enough that it overlooks most of the other buildings in the area which affords it a view of the hills between Portland and the ocean. It’s a perfect place to watch sunset, could even be romantic as long as Janos intends on using the occasion to apologize. Yes, he can imagine breaking a few necks for Raven if she can save him this much trouble.

Azazel replies with a message of his own:  _Takeout?_

The response comes as Azazel steps outside the building.  _Thank you, but I’m not hungry._

It’s well after three, which gives him plenty of time to get over there. That means he has a couple hours he can expend in Powell’s browsing the massive bookstore’s Spanish and Russian language sections. He’s never managed to get away from the so-called City of Books without picking up something. The Russian language section is pitiful compared the Spanish, but it’s his Spanish that needs work. Perhaps he can even find some work by Frederico García Lorca, supposedly Janos’ favorite poet.

Azazel leaves his rental parked outside Quicksilver with a few English language murder mysteries and an expensive copy of García Lorca’s  _El maleficio de la mariposa_  inside. He’s the usual five minutes early on entrance to Incubator and loses very little of that on his way up the art gallery’s reclaimed wooden stairs. The place always has an interesting smell of old wood, paint, and old incense. The lingering incense smell gets stronger the farther up the stairs one gets and culminates at the fifth floor event space.

The space itself is already a chiaroscuro of exposed wood beams, leather furniture, and low tables made of large pieces of driftwood topped with glass. The fairy lights along the wooden ceilings aren’t lit but they would only detract from the natural light coming in through the expansive windows. 

Azazel isn’t alone in the space; there’s an eclectic group of people off to the east side of the floor, gathered around bottles of wine and engaged in discussion. And to his left, there is of course, a handsome man approaching, backlit by the sun.

It’s no surprise that Janos has thought this out; he is, of course, a master of image and presentation. A dark teal suit with floral print, the contrasting orange of sunset’s golden hour, the carefully careless tousle of his hair, and the green, glass bottle of wine in one arm. There’s a glint from the red lacquer of the leather bracelet at his wrist when he lifts his hand to brush a lock of hair back from over his hazel eyes. It’s familiar to see Janos dress to please but alien to do so soon after an argument. It’s a puzzle for Azazel to solve.

Janos smiles and lowers his hand to gesture at a leather couch that faces the west windows. “Sit with me?”

Azazel answers with a nod and walks with Janos to the seat. “You did not pack this suit.”

Janos shakes his head and sets the wine bottle on the drift wood and glass coffee table in front of the dark brown couch. There are already two glasses waiting there as well as a small, neat, satin-black store bag. It’s the bag that provides another piece to the unusual puzzle: Janos has gone penance shopping.

Penance shopping is always Azazel’s duty to perform. When Janos apologizes, often enough he makes things up to Azazel with sex and doting, not purchases. It’s a role reversal Azazel has never expected to experience.

Oblivious to Azazel’s thoughts, Janos opens the wine, pours both glasses full, sets aside the bottle, and reclines next to Azazel with one of the two glasses extended. Azazel takes the glass he’s offered and stares as Janos’ composes a relaxed posture against the leather. There’s dishonesty in Janos’ body language as evidenced when he doesn’t stay relaxed for long. He leans forward to place his untouched wine glass on the table and takes the shop bag instead.

“Here,” Janos says and tips the bag to slide out a black and silver box. He opens it with one hand and displays the contents; silver or maybe white gold cufflinks in the form of Chinese knots. “They’re white gold, from a local designer.”

Azazel knows very well Janos isn’t yet where he needs to be to pay for his New York apartment and other living expenses let alone white gold jewelry. He takes the small box regardless and studies them like one should any fine gift.

“Designer friend?” Azazel asks.

“I’ve worn his designs before,” Janos replies, because Janos ‘knows’ people; he’s never quick to call them friends.

“You found the suit on short notice. Looks like Dolce.”

Janos smiles another dazzling grin. “Yes, Dolce. Do you like it?”

“On you,” Azazel replies, “yes. On someone else it would not look as good.”

“I know.”

Az snorts softly at that. When Janos agrees like this it isn’t arrogance or vanity, just an accepted truth. He watches without comment as Janos stretches forward again for his glass of wine. Janos continues to look natural and relaxed, but Az knows his body language and his tells from several years of study and knows a front when he sees it.

Azazel closes the box and sets it back on the table. He allows the silence to stretch by taking a drink of the wine which is as good as expected. Janos is usually comfortable with quiet, but Azazel knows the onus is on how he himself chooses to interpret and respond to the situation. He could make things more comfortable for Janos with some kind of reassurance, but he doesn’t. Janos is the picture of calm as he care fully folds the black bag flat and sets it back on the table. Azazel knows fidgeting when he sees it, no matter how natural it might look on Janos.

“This is all very familiar.”

Janos’ answering nod is pronounced. “I had an argument with Raven and Sean. It made me realize I was wrong.”

“A fight with Sean?” Azazel’s brow lowers in confusion. How could Sean possibly be involved?

Janos shakes his head and makes a dismissive motion with his free hand. “I told you I would rest but I knew I wouldn’t because I had the photo shoot. It means that in addition to not telling you about the shoot, I lied.”

“Why?” The couch creaks as Azazel leans forward to set aside the wine again. It’s unusual for Janos to articulate what he’s done wrong like this.

Janos’ shrug is light, airy. “Because I wanted to. I wanted to do the heavy lifting, I wanted the sex, and I wanted the photo shoot.”

Azazel frowns and leans back against the seat. “And?”

There’s a tightening at Janos’ mouth for just a second, but then his expression relaxes back into a smile and he leans forward, one hand landing on Azazel’s knee. “And I apologize. And now it is over and we can go back to normal.”

There are times, Azazel thinks, that Janos could frustrate the most patient of philosophers and so-called saints. He lifts his arms and rests them over the back of the couch and looks out at the hills. “Is this your attitude of apology?”

Janos laughs quietly and squeezes Azazel’s knee. “Should I hang my head and cry? Is that what you want?”

“I do not want wine and jewelry,” Azazel replies, his gaze never lifting from the horizon.

Now Janos sits up; his back straight with indignation. “Why not? You give  _me_  things.”

Azazel nods. “Yes, why?”

“Because you’re sorry,” Janos says, his hand coming off Azazel’s knee. “It’s a reminder that you value me. As you can see if you look, I value you, too.”

“Ah,” Azazel replies, and finally turns his head to look at Janos. “But there’s another reason I buy things for you, yes?”

One side of Janos’ upper lip lifts slightly in derision. “Because I deserve those things. Because I am valuable.”

“You are,” Azazel says without taking his eyes from Janos’ face, “but that is not why. You have never apologized using gifts before. Why this time?”

“I thought I should. Obviously.”

“Why?”

The last of his flippant attitude evaporates; Janos’ expression darkens with frustration. Azazel has no sympathy and watches quietly as Janos stares at the wine bottle like he can shatter it without touching it. “Raven asked me if I would.”

Azazel brings down his right arm and twists slightly towards Janos; he can hazard a guess what’s Raven’s done and how it has affected Janos, but he doubts that Janos knows how to express it. “Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.” Janos looks away from the bottle and down at his knees in continued frustration. “I thought maybe she was angry that I haven’t apologized this way before.”

“Why would she be angry about that?”

“Me cago en tu Dios!” Janos slaps the couch angrily. “Stop asking me why, why, why! I don’t know!”

Azazel remains impassive; it’s not hard to keep a neutral expression but with Janos he can slip. He waits and watches as Janos fumes next to him. It’s a struggle for Janos to calm down and even so he keeps glancing at Azazel, waiting for him to do or say something. Azazel has no intention; they both know Janos is the one in the wrong. Az watches Janos, observes the orange light on his face, the way the sun illuminates the brown and green of Janos’ eyes. He’s content to wait as long as it takes.

At length, Janos looks between the black gift box, the wine bottle, and out to the glorious sunset. But mostly he avoids looking at Azazel. “Why do you make this so hard?”

Azazel wishes he could light up in here to draw the silence out a little more; he improvises by counting the rise and fall of Janos’ chest. “Because whether you intend it not, your apology lacks sincerity and resembles a bribe. Lying is one thing, but withholding information is the source of many arguments between us. I take that seriously, as should you.”

Much of the anger appears to go out of Janos at that; his shoulders shift and his hands fall together in his lap. He says nothing. Of course, he says nothing. From past experience Azazel knows Janos is still angry, but if he is at all sincere about his attempted apology he’s probably been kicked down the seldom-trod path of self-reflection.

“Do you understand why I was angry this morning?”

Janos finally looks at Azazel. “Because I lied and didn’t tell you about the shoot. Most of all because I didn’t tell you.”

Azazel nods. “Do you regret lying?”

Janos sighs and shakes his head. “No, but not telling you about the shoot is different. After I talked to Raven and Sean I started to feel very bad about it.”

Little wonder he hadn’t taken Azazel up on the offer of takeout; from past experience there seems to be a pattern of not eating properly when Janos experiences emotional distress. Azazel wants to take Janos and pull him close at that, but the timing remains wrong. Janos has to come to him, not be captured or tricked. “At least you are honest now.”

Janos frowns, but there are vestiges of indignation or pride that keep him from moving into Azazel’s space on his own. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“I believe you and I forgive that.” Azazel gestures to the small box with the cuff links. “But not lying; take the jewelry back.”

“You forgive me not telling you, but not lying? That doesn’t make sense.” Janos’ back is straight again, his jaw tight. “But, anyway, you buy things for me, too. There is no reason for you to not accept my gift.”

“Since you do not want any more whys, I will explain why I buy you things as a form of apology.” Azazel says and brushes his hands down his slacks before standing. “I buy things for you because you demand it. You demand it because fine things are more reliable than your previous lovers’ apologies. Take the jewelry back.”

There’s a moment of stillness as Janos processes what Azazel has said and then he’s a whirlwind of furious movement. He lunges forward, seizes the small black box, and brings his arm back. If Azazel wanted to he could take Janos’ wrist and stop him. He doesn’t. The box hits a window with a muffled crack. It bounces off, leaving a scuff to mark its impact on the glass. The small box hits the floor and tumbles next to the couch where it stops, bottom side up. Azazel leans down, picks the newly-dented box up, and sets it back on the glass top.

Janos’ chest is heaving with his loss of temper and his cheeks are flushed in anger. There’s heat boiling in his eyes. And yet, he’s beautiful, glowing and incandescent in fury and the light of the setting sun, like some fairytale villainess, or in this case, villain. Azazel can hardly blame Janos the anger; Az doesn’t pull his punches when he has something that needs to be said.

“I am going to dinner.” Azazel slips a hand into his trouser pocket and takes hold of his cigarette case and lighter. He pulls both out. “You can come with me now or I can pick you up later.”

“Que te den,” Janos repeats, voice low and rasping, “por culo.”

It’s always somewhat bizarre whenever Janos adds ‘in the ass’ to the usual ‘get fucked’, but just because Janos isn’t closeted doesn’t mean he’s overcome his perception of what it means to be gay. But that’s an entirely different issue for another day. Janos already has more than enough to think about.

“You have your room card?” Azazel asks calmly and turns to leave. “Until eleven you can call and I will pick you up. After that you use taxi.”

Janos says nothing and Azazel doesn’t turn around to get confirmation; Janos needs time to be angry over being called out on so many things. It’s a lot to take in and more than he usually pressures Janos to think about. Azazel hopes that after the anger fades, Janos will work through the whole thing and call or come back late in the night. Probably he will sulk all day Monday, but Az can live with that in the name of progress.

The only thing, Az realizes some eight hours later when he wakes up alone in bed at 2am, is that the problem isn’t the amount of trust he has in Janos. It’s the woefully small amount of trust Janos has in him or anyone else. 

At least, he thinks, Sean still lives in Portland and if there’s anyone Janos can go to in Raven’s absence in Portland, it’s Sean. 


	12. El maleficio de la mariposa (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean seems off, Janos appears to make a Serious Effort, and Azazel revisits the urge to punch himself in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy St Patrick's Day?   
> No warnings I can think of for this one other than references to past deaths and past injury. A lot of feelings, though.

The buzz of a message vibrating Azazel’s phone on the nightstand brings him out of a light sleep. The bed isn’t as hot as usual nor does Azazel feel the touch of warm skin against his own. The lack of either spurs him to pick up the phone and then to wait a short, squinting eternity for his eyes to adjust to the phone’s backlight. When they do he sees it is past 3am and he has a message from Sean.

He had figured that with Raven in Salem setting up house with Hank that Janos would end up staying the night at Sean’s new loft. Perhaps Janos has gotten shit-faced and Sean wants Azazel to come get him. Maybe Sean’s drunk himself and wants to tell Az off for being a shit boyfriend. With anyone else that really would be amusing the next day when fear-driven apologies would come pouring in. But Azazel likes Sean and that takes all the fun out of being intimidating.

_Hey, sorry to message you late, but Janos said he’d call or text when he got back to the hotel. I just want to know he got there._

There’s no hesitation, no gap between reading the words and Azazel throwing back the sheets. He immediately calls Janos. He keys the phone to speaker and leaves it on the bed so he can get dressed without stumbling around. The phone rings five times before going to the message Raven recorded for Janos after he moved to New York. In that time Azazel is half dressed and has one knife strapped on his arm and the other shoved into his belt. He ends the call and calls Sean next, again on speaker phone.

Sean picks up on the second ring and sounds upset. “He’s not there, is he?”

“No,” Azazel says. “When and where did you last see him?”

“He took a cab some time after midnight.”

“From where?” Azazel hates repeating himself, but he keeps his voice level for Sean’s benefit.

“Ah, well,” Sean’s voice fades out for a moment and then, “from my new place, you’ve been here, you know. He was helping me set up a bit and we were playing a lot of music. You know how he is; he loves music.”

“Alcohol?” Azazel asks. It isn’t lost on him how strangely guilty Sean sounds, but he also knows Sean’s witnessed him at his most possessive and jealous and probably wants to avoid becoming a victim.

“Yeah, he had a bottle of wine and one of my new roomies –the girl,” Sean’s voice rises and takes a shrill tone of appeasement, “the girl, okay? She had some wine, too, and there may have been weed.”

“Sean,” Az says in voice calmer than his words imply, “did Janos leave your loft by cab while drunk and high?”

“Uh, tipsy, for sure. I never actually saw him smoke anything.”

It is unfathomable to Azazel why Sean wouldn’t have kept Janos over for the night. But then, Janos may have not wanted to stay for some reckless reason.

As soon as Azazel is dressed and ready to go; he switches the phone off speaker and lifts it to his ear. “Can you think of anywhere he would go?”

Azazel has his keys in hand and is halfway through the door when his forward momentum is arrested: somebody is sitting in the hall right next to the door.

“Maybe our old loft,” Sean says. “He had some secret trick to getting up the fire escape and inside when he left the place without his keys and nobody was home when he got back.”

Azazel fills his lungs with a deep breath of hotel air, holds it for a moment, and then breathes carefully out in relief. “No, I have found him,” Az says and abruptly ends the call. He’ll have to ask Sean later why he didn’t keep Janos over and safe.

Janos is sitting next to the door, knees up, duffel beside him, his phone in one hand watching videos on Youtube. The expensive suit is gone; he’s dressed down in a loose knit black sweater that’s better suited to night clubs or beaches, black skinny jeans, and his Italian high top trainers with all the buckles. In other words, he’s dressed to go dancing.

“Come inside,” Azazel says.

Janos doesn’t move.

At first Azazel thinks he must have his headphones on too loud, but no, there’s no cord plugged into the phone so Janos is watching dance videos without sound as well as ignoring Azazel. Azazel reaches down and lays a hand on Janos shoulder. “Janos, come inside.”

Janos lifts his free hand and reaches into his back jeans pocket. He withdraws the hotel room’s key card and holds it up, but his face stays down, his eyes on his phone. The message is clear enough; if Janos had wanted to come in he would have already.

“If you do not want to come in,” Azazel says, “why are you here?”

The card goes back into Janos’ back pocket and the phone is turned off. Janos turns the phone over in his hands several times before he answers. “I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want to crawl back to you.”

Azazel crouches down next to Janos, grimacing when his joints crack. From this close he can smell sweat, cigarette smoke, and a faint hint of perfume; the usual smells of a night out. “So you came near, eh? I think you wanted me to find you.”

“Is that what you think?”

Azazel takes his hand off Janos’ shoulder and lifts it up to the underside of his jaw, with gentle pressure he pulls Janos’ face up. “Yes, or you would have texted Sean. You wanted us to worry, didn’t you? I know why you want me to worry, but why do that to Sean?”

Though he allows his face to be tilted up, Janos’ eyes slide away from Azazel to look down the hall. “I didn’t have sex with the two girls at the café; it was just Carlos.”

Azazel ceases movement for a moment at the disjointed confession. “What?”

“The agency never wanted me to lose weight.” Janos brings his gaze from down the hall and up into Azazel’s eyes. “I don’t regret lying to you then, but I did lie.”

Azazel exhales through his nose; Janos is always surprising. “I suspected. Why are you telling me now?”

“I’m trying to play by these new rules of yours.” Janos lifts his chin off Azazel’s hand and looks down at the phone. “You have changed since I lived in Portland; you want things from me you didn’t want before. But what I want hasn’t changed.”

It’s not untrue, Azazel realizes, and it’s not anything he regrets or is ashamed of; he was violently jealous before and possessive to an equal extreme. Janos had occasionally enjoyed and exploited those failings but they had more often been the source of fights and had ultimately culminated in that messy break up back in August.

“Janos,” Azazel repeats, “come inside. Come to bed and we will talk in the morning.”

Janos shakes his head. “No, cabrón, the rules have changed and I need to learn them. No lying, no?”

There are mules less stubborn than Janos. “Come inside and we will talk as you shower.”

The phone is dropped onto the duffel. Janos takes the straps and picks the bag up and the two of them stand up together. Habitually, Azazel’s hand drifts to the middle of Janos’ back as he passes. Trauma to his hands and years of working with guns and knives have robbed his fingertips of much of their detailed sensation but he still feels the loose weave of the black knit, the unmistakable heat of the skin beneath. He can feel the way the soft knit catches at his hand’s rough skin as Janos moves past and into their dimly lit hotel room.

Janos moves unerringly in the darkness. He sets his duffle on a chair and begins to strip out of his clothes. It’s clear to Az this isn’t a strip show or Janos’ usual casual enticement, so he steps into the bathroom, turns on the light, and starts the shower to cycle the cold water through that precedes the warm.

The room is filled with steam by the time Janos comes in; he closes the door behind him but doesn’t say anything to Azazel. His posture hasn’t suffered from his weariness as much as his eyes have. Fortunately for Janos, he carries much of his stress and tension in his shoulders where it doesn’t show as badly during photo shoots. Good sleep will take away the dark circles but not the knots in his muscles; that takes hot baths, massages, and more.

The white noise of the shower changes volume and pitch to suit Janos’ shape. Azazel doesn’t usually notice details like this, perhaps he’s getting a little maudlin as time passes and this unexpected relationship matures. That’s the thing, really. This is the longest running romantic entanglement he’s maintained and he knows from professional relationships and personal friendships that things change and work must be done to keep bonds. And also, of course, boundaries ebb and flow but must also be maintained.

“Do you think I have changed the rules,” Azazel says over the shower noise, “because I did not forgive your lie?”

The first reply is the soft sound of Janos’ hand hitting the shower wall. “Yes. Isn’t it more important I tell you things?”

“It is,” Azazel replies. “I know you regret not telling me, but you do not think lying was a problem. When you lie I cannot trust you. Nothing is more important than trust.”

Azazel hears another soft concussion on the other side of the shower’s curtains. He steps away from the wall and draws both curtains’ edges back several centimeters to look within. Janos’ head is down, his hands supporting him against the wall as he allows the water to beat down between his shoulders. Inappropriately, Azazel is reminded of the first time he had rimmed Janos; it was well over a year ago in the loft’s shower in this same position. As quickly as it surfaces, he dismisses the memory and the ill-timed wave of heat that comes with it.

“Yanochka,” Azazel says, “rules have not changed. My behavior has been changing since you gave me this second chance. Now I am looking forward instead of living each day like it is the last with you.”

Janos stares at Azazel for a moment and then lifts his head and pushes back to take the shower spray directly into his face. He lifts his hands and rubs vigorously at his eyes, forehead, and cheeks. Then he bats the shower head away with a slap and opens reddened eyes to look back at Az.

“I don’t want to have such a serious talk anymore,” he says. “I will try to not lie like that and I will keep trying to be open, because trust is very important to me, too. Is that good for now?”

Azazel weighs whether or not he wants to remind Janos that Janos was the one that didn’t want to go to bed until they talked. He opts for giving Janos a wry smile and releases the shower curtain. “I will think about that.”

The shower’s spray is directed back to Janos’ body; Azazel listens to it as he undoes his cuffs and pulls up his shirt sleeves and then folds them up over his elbows. He takes the knife and its sheath off his arm and the one out of the back of his trousers and sets them both on the bathroom bench. There’s one other thing he needs and he leaves the bathroom briefly to retrieve it.

He returns with one of the room’s two chairs and pulls the bath’s opaque curtain halfway back along its track. Janos turns to look through the milky plastic curtain between them, but Azazel can’t make out his expression until he pulls aside that curtain enough to flip the drain lever up. That puts his face at the same level as Janos’ dick and though he’s tempted, it isn’t what Azazel is after.

Janos pauses in the latter part of washing his body to look down at the way water is now collecting in the bath tub, at Azazel, and then confusedly at the chair Az sets down next to the tub.

“I may not need the chair,” Azazel says in reply to Janos’ expression.

“Okay,” Janos says, his expression now doubtful. “What is your plan?”

“You will take bath and relax your shoulders,” Azazel says, “and I will wash your hair.”

The doubtful look slowly warms and tired fondness spreads across Janos’ face. “I don’t deserve you. One day you will kiss me and I will turn into a prince.”

Azazel smiles. “So you do know some fairy tales, but you have our roles reversed.”

“I have always told you,” Janos says, “that I am a beast on the inside.”

“Three months ago is not always.” Azazel reaches inside the shower again, heedless of his arm getting soaked. Janos helpfully moves forward, and makes it easy for Az to take the back of Janos’ neck and pull him close enough to press a warm kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And I am neither prince or charming. Inside or out.”

Janos pulls away again, his eyes squinting against the shower spray and with a certain warmness. “Then we can make our own fairy tale.”

Janos finishes his shower and diverts the water from the shower nozzle to the faucet. He settles into the bath, his upper body at the opposite end of the bath from the faucet so Az has to relocate the chair and pull the curtains the other way. Helpfully, Janos passes him both his shampoo and conditioner even though Janos will probably end up showering once again in the afternoon.

Janos’ shampoo doesn’t produce much foam, but working it through his hair while it’s growing out from a short cut is much easier than it would have been at full length. It’s even a little therapeutic to massage the soap through the dark roots and along Janos’ scalp. It isn’t the first time he’s washed somebody’s hair; he’d had to help with his youngest brother as a teen and then there was his nieces and nephews when they were all still living in a _kommunalka_. With the kids it’s been nothing but a chore to help either his parents or siblings, but with Janos it has a different dimension.

“Has anyone washed your hair before?” Azazel finds himself asking. As soon as it’s off his tongue, though, he thinks it’s a mistake; Janos has too many secrets and they all involve his past.

Sure enough, Janos’ brow draws up as expected, but a sigh follows and Janos nods, scraping Azazel’s fingertips across his scalp in the process. It’s an improvement over the expected pout or anger. “This is much better, though. And you?”

“As a child, though I have no memory of it,” Azazel replies. “And when I was home after the Chechen grenade and bandages were all over my face. Normally it was my mother or sister, but one time my father did. I was thirty-one and my father cried over me like when my older brother was killed in Afghanistan.”

Water ripples and recedes, announcing Janos’ hands as he lifts them from beneath the warm depths. The room is cool enough and the water hot enough that steam rises up from Janos’ skin even as he reaches up and sets his hands on Azazel’s forearms. Azazel appreciates the comforting gesture; Janos usually ignores, distracts, or changes subjects when Azazel mentions family.

Azazel turns one soapy hand up and squeezes Janos’ forearm back. “He was happy when I quit  _spetsnatz_. Even happier when my brothers and I built them a nice _dacha,_ you would call it a summer home.”

“You know how to build houses?” Janos pulls his hands away again, sinks them back into the water.

Above Janos’ head, where he cannot see, Azazel smiles at the possible deflection. “One of my little brothers is the builder; he and his group did the work but I gave most money.”

“Of course you did,” Janos says, the corner of his mouth pulling up in amusement.

“Life has been much better for everyone since I went into business. My family worries much less.” At that Azazel takes mercy on Janos and allows the conversation to die. Janos knows that Azazel’s father died not long before they met, what he doesn’t know is that Azazel was at sea when it happened and hadn’t been able to get back for the funeral. He’d had to make due with his sister and her daughter taking turns narrating the Orthodox funeral while he’d paced around and punched things below deck.

It’s half past four in the morning when Azazel finishes washing and conditioning Janos' hair and finds he’s allowed Janos fall asleep in the bath. He grimaces and carefully sets Janos’ head back down before he gets up and opens the bath’s drain. When Janos is woken from a short slumber he normally comes to with a headache and a shitty attitude. Thankfully for Janos, Azazel is immune to bad attitudes when it comes to his friends, but he doesn’t like Janos to be in pain unless Janos specifically wants it.

Janos wakes up in the latter part of Az towel-drying his hair. True to expectations, Janos comes to irritated and with his brow and nose scrunched against the sudden headache exacerbated, of course, by Azazel’s ministrations. Quiet, then sharp, curses in Spanish warn Az to turn the towel over to Janos and instead helps him out of the bathtub’s receding waters.

Azazel leaves Janos to dry himself off. He aids him fight the headache with aspirin and a glass of water while Janos fumbles with the towel. Prior experience dictates that even in this half awake and headachey state Janos will stubbornly persevere through his moisturizer regimen and other pre-bed rituals and is best left to cope alone.

The hotel room is beginning to show the first bleedings of morning light; Azazel pulls the curtains against the brightening sky and sets his knives on his side of the bed. He’s never needed them in any of his trips to North America, but there have been too many lost battles, too many times in the military when they’d been undersupplied with guns and ammunition. There were also, of course, the times he’d surrendered to opposing forces, given up his empty guns, and then eviscerated his captors. He has long since accepted he’s just as addicted to his blades’ presence as he is nicotine.

Reminded of that itch, he tells Janos where he’s going and takes a short jaunt out to smoke a much-needed cigarette. He comes back smelling of smoke and finds Janos already in bed, clutching the pillow Azazel was using. Fucking Janos. It’s just like the other morning at Raven’s new place when Az woke up first for coffee with Erik. It makes his heart clench in a way that makes him want very much to punch himself in the fucking face. Nobody he’s been involved with romantically has ever made him feel like this: so weak, but so powerfully motivated to make the relationship work.

It’s with that uncomfortable feeling moving through his chest that Az gets ready for bed. He gets into bed carefully, slowly pulls the pillow away and lies on his side, facing Janos. By the light of the bedside clock he studies Janos’ weary features and marvels again that anyone so singularly attractive could be his.

“Az.”

It’s little more than a murmur, but enough to know that taking the pillow away has woken Janos up. Azazel turns on his back and pulls Janos half on top of him. Like this he doesn’t need any light to see if Janos’ eyes are open; he’d feel it if Janos’ eyelashes were to brush his chest. “Yes, Yanochka?”

“My father is dead, too.”

“Ah.” Blayhd, Janos can probably hear his heart rate picking up even though he wants to play this straight. He rubs his hands up and down Janos’ back in an effort to be comforting as well as to distract himself from his amazement and interest in this unexpected gift of knowledge. “Do you have fond memories of your father?”

“A wedding photo. He was from Mexico.”

Perhaps Janos never knew the man. Perhaps Janos was born outside wedlock; in some places that can be a heavy social disadvantage even if the wedding comes after. Azazel lifts up a hand and runs his fingers soothingly through Janos’ hair. “Ah, so my Yanochka is half Mexican, then. Do you look like him?”

“His eyes,” Janos says into Azazel’s chest.

The old touchy subject, the one about Janos’ mother and who he resembles bubbles up into Azazel’s mind. Janos takes after his mother after all. He continues to pet Janos’ thick hair, to comb through the locks. “How old were you when he died?”

Janos shifts his left arm from Azazel’s chest and reaches up and softly presses his fingertips over Azazel’s lips. “I’m sorry, Az, but I want to sleep now. If I think about this more I won’t sleep well.”

Azazel takes his hand from Janos’ hair and grasps the hand touching his lips instead. He kisses the fingertips briefly. “Maybe we can talk about it this afternoon.”

Janos’ clenches Azazel’s hand in turn, but he makes no promises. Azazel has no expectations; Janos has only ever given up difficult information about his past twice now. Both times he was under stress, both times in bed with the promise of sleep or comfort looming. Azazel wishes there was a better way to get through to Janos than waiting for him to near some kind of breaking point or other.


	13. El maleficio de la mariposa (part three)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Az wants to punch himself in the face and let Janos eat crackers in bed, but then he asks the wrong thing at the wrong time and learns more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicitly implied past murders, mention of knives, mention of violence.

_The evil spell of the butterfly_

The next day begins around 9am for Azazel and involves a cigarette and hitting up a grocery store for kefir and a deli sandwich. He buys the larger size bottle of kefir and picks up a packet of crackers with Janos in mind; it’s likely Janos will have a tender stomach when he wakes up. Stress, not eating, drinking on an empty stomach, and dancing for a couple hours isn’t likely to yield good results. There won’t be any makeup sex any time soon, but that’s fine; Az has been learning there’s more to making up than fucking.

From the time he returns to the room until noon, Azazel reads one of the murder mystery novels he bought at Powell’s and drinks strong tea. Janos stirs uncomfortably in his sleep a few times but largely remains comatose.

It’s half past noon when Azazel sets his novel aside. If he lets Janos sleep any later he won’t be able to sleep tonight. He reaches out to wake him, but pauses as he lays his hand on Janos’ hip; there’s such a contrast between them. It isn’t like he hasn’t noticed before how rough his hands look when placed on Janos’ smooth skin, or the difference in their skin tones. But with the promise of bringing Janos to Omsk, he wonders again how his family will perceive somebody that looks the way Janos does, somebody that’s never done military service, somebody from a country many Russians consider decadent and lazy.

And then there’s the nature of his relationship with Janos. His family knows about the few long term relationships he’s been in, but they know nothing about his shorter, nor less conventional, relationships. Taking Janos to Omsk won’t raise suspicions in itself, but his mother is sharp and Azazel isn’t inclined to hide. Probably, he’ll have to talk to his sister; he’s closer to her than his two younger brothers. 

Finally, gently, Azazel pushes on Janos’ hip. “Time to wake up, Yanochka.”

Janos makes a face and turns to the side, dropping an arm over his face as he goes. Azazel smirks at this and takes Janos’ hand and pulls it to uncover his face. The annoyed noise Janos makes in response carves Azazel’s smirk even deeper into his face. 

When Azazel pulls Janos’ arm out wider, Janos mumbles something incomprehensible and tries to pull his hand back. Finding that effort for naught, he turns the hand around to make a rude gesture. 

Azazel only snorts in further amusement. He turns Janos’ hand back and straightens all the fingers. “How is your stomach?”

At that Janos sighs, swallows, and turns over toward Az, in the process taking the pressure off his arm. “Not good.”

“There are crackers and kefir.”

Azazel feels Janos’ low chuckle vibrate through his body more than he hears it. “You know the way to my heart.”

“Do I?” Azazel releases Janos’ hand and leans over him to nip the corner of Janos’ jaw. Azazel appreciates the repetition of an old in-joke between them, but he knows it’s not so direct a path. 

“Don’t you?” Janos replies softly and closes his eyes as if to go back to sleep. “If anyone does, it is you.”

And just like that, Azazel’s heart warms and his head gets light… and he wants nothing so much as to punch himself in the face. Only Janos can reduce him to a pathetic fool with only a few words. 

It takes him a moment to pull himself back together and then he places a hand lightly on Janos’ warm stomach. “If this is the way to your heart, best we go carefully today.”

Janos smiles, opens his eyes, and pushes himself up into a sitting position. He says nothing, he doesn’t have to, just lays his hand over Azazel’s and keeps smiling. 

The whole impulse to punch himself in the face comes back over Azazel and it is, with every intention to cover the awkward feeling, that he pulls away to retrieve the packet of crackers he bought. Is he going to let Janos eat crackers in bed? Yes, fuck yes, he is. And is he going to dramatically change the subject to save himself further embarrassment? Yes, that, too. Anything to get away from the weird rush of warmth spreading up his chest and neck and that threatens to fuck up his head, too.

Azazel brings the crackers and a glass of water back to Janos and sits on the edge of the bed. “I told you how my father died, what of yours?”

The warm and open smile drops immediately from Janos’ face, which is more or less what Azazel wanted, but… but not really.  _Blyahd_. Janos still takes the glass of water and, equally surprising, doesn’t move away. He lifts the glass to his lips, drinks half the water, and then sets the container on his knee. Janos’ face is completely impassive, his eyes locked on Azazel’s, as he lifts his left hand to touch his index finger just under the right side of his ear and then drag the finger across to the left ear. 

A slit throat.

The warmth of before turns cold as muscle memory tingles in Azazel’s fingers. He knows exactly what it feels like to make a cut like that. That kind of cut isn’t necessary, it’s sloppy, but situations calling for vengeance or making a messy, bloody point are served well with that cut. What the fuck was the man involved in? Was someone jealous?

“I was maybe a year old so I don’t miss him,” Janos says with a shrug. He takes his finger away from beneath his ear and reaches for the packet of crackers.

Azazel opens the packet automatically and passes it over without a word.

Janos doesn’t have anything more to say about his father for the rest of the day, nor the day after that, or the rest of the week. Azazel doesn’t push or pry despite all the questions crowding his head. He’s not sure how to ask politely or what to say, but obviously something like that, if Janos’ gesture was accurate, affects a person. Losing his older brother to the war in Afghanistan had a profound affect on Azazel’s whole family and set the trajectory of Azazel’s life. Having a father’s throat cut from ear to ear, while a toddler or not, isn’t something that leaves a person untouched.

The worst part is, of course, that Azazel knows what it feels like. He’s killed people in the exact same way and, irrationally, the muscle memory of what it feels like to slit a throat crops up every time he thinks about Janos miming the cut or even the carefully ambivalent look in his eyes as he had said he was too young to miss his father.

It takes a lot to get under Azazel’s skin or to disturb him, but then he realizes that for much of the time he’s been with Janos, Janos has known what Azazel uses his knives for. Janos has surely known that Azazel has killed people in the way his father was killed. If he’d thought Janos morbid before, what with giving him Suskind’s  _Perfume_  for Valentine’s day, then he’s morbid  _and_  twisted. After all, when they first got together, Janos had often asked Azazel to show him how to use his knives. Had even, at the start of the relationship, managed to convince Az to fuck him at knifepoint and had seemed genuinely excited the whole time.

And then, of course, Azazel remembers that night in New York when he drew his knives in a heavy-handed move to get Janos’ attention. Blyahd, probably he’d gotten more attention than he’d ever realized and not the good kind.

Azazel turns the knowledge over in his head in the few idle moments they have. It doesn’t keep him up at night, but he wakes up early with it on his mind.

But when they finish their week off clubbing with Raven, Hank, and a strangely recalcitrant Sean, Azazel finds other things to think about. Sean spends the night avoiding him. Avoids him when possible and never leaves the group unless he’s with one of the others. Raven shrugs when Azazel asks her about it; shrugs and says nothing which means she knows something but isn’t going to say.

So Az takes his time and waits to ask Janos. He waits until after his Vancouver cigarette and they’re in the air, headed for New York. Waits until Janos has put back a couple glasses of wine, they’ve pushed the armrest from between them, and Janos is leaning away from the window and is comfortable against Azazel’s side.

Azazel slips his arm around Janos’ waist and pulls him closer. “What is all this with Sean?” 

Patience is one of Azazel’s virtues, subtly is not.

Janos takes a deep breath through his nose and opens his eyes. He sits up straight. “What do you mean?”

“Guilty behavior, avoidance, not keeping you overnight when you were upset and drunk.” Azazel watches Janos’ expression as he speaks, but he doesn’t make any indication of surprise or interest. “He is not usually like this.”

Janos’ expression doesn’t change. He shrugs out of Azazel’s loose embrace and reaches up for the call button and then drops his right hand onto Azazel’s thigh. One of the flight attendants approaches and Janos asks him for more wine. Azazel knows a stalling technique when he sees it and brings up his guard.

Once the attendant is on his way to fetch Janos’ drink, Janos takes another measured breath and turns to Azazel. “I would tell you, but I promised Sean my silence.”

Azazel’s brow tightens and a spike of anger hits his system. “Convenient.”

Janos’ lips thin with sudden pressure. He takes his hand off Azazel’s knee and pulls his phone and headphones out. “Believe what you like.”

“How long have you known whatever this is?”

Janos slips the headphones over his ears. “I would tell you if I thought you would believe me.”

“I would believe you if not for the lies,” Azazel retorts.

The wine comes and Janos spends the next half hour turned toward the window, watching shows on his phone or staring out at the clouds. Azazel doesn’t feel particularly stung by the cold shoulder; Janos has given him cause to be suspicious whenever he holds back information. Whether he’s being honest or not, Azazel reasons that Janos can afford to suffer a little.

So much for making out with Janos when the lack of nicotine begins to make short work of his temper. At least Azazel has books to pass the time. Since he’s in the mood for more difficult reading, and perhaps getting Janos’ attention, he retrieves the book by García Lorca. It’s a play, rather than a proper novel, and quickly reveals itself as far too avant-garde for Azazel’s taste, but it’s a good grammar and vocabulary challenge. 

The play is a lyrical sort of fairytale about a cockroach that becomes infatuated with a butterfly. A good hour into it Azazel glances at Janos and rolls his eyes; it’s the age old beauty and the beast story except the beast blames the beauty for his infatuation. At one time Az would have empathized with the cockroach, but he has no sympathy for the protagonist now, not even when he’s a little angry with his own butterfly.

Janos doesn’t notice Azazel’s glance, staring out the window as he is, whatever show he had been watching is forgotten in his lap. Curious, Azazel closes the book over his finger and reaches for and picks up Janos’ phone to see what he’s been watching. He has a penchant for Spanish police shows, period dramas, and gossipy celebrity talk shows. But it’s dancing again; some sort of flamenco and ballet fusion. Janos turns his head at Azazel’s invasion of space, but says nothing. His eyes are cool, deceptively placid.

“I thought you did not like ballet,” Azazel says.

Janos lifts one padded cup off his ear and stares. Az is sure Janos heard but is making him repeat the statement just because he knows how much Azazel hates repeating himself. He swallows his annoyance and says it again.

“I never said I don’t like ballet,” Janos replies. “I said it was gay. But this is flamenco and flamenco is in every Spaniard’s blood.”

“You like flamenco?” It’s a bit surprising; they’ve had many opportunities to see flamenco performances in the time they’ve been together. In fact, a big flamenco tribute had been going on in New York while they’d been in Portland. They could have planned around it had Janos wanted to see it. 

“I didn’t say I like flamenco,” Janos says, “only that it is in the blood.”

Janos is maddening when he wants to be. Azazel frowns and sets the phone back in Janos’ lap. “Why are you watching or listening to it if you don’t like it?”

Janos pulls the headphones off and sets them in his lap over the phone. “Why are you reading that play?”

Azazel picks up the book. “Because I know you like this author and I wanted a challenge.”

A crease appears between Janos’ eyebrows, disturbing his calm and slightly superior façade. “That play was García Lorca’s great humiliation. It was performed only once despite  _La mariposa_  being played by a great dancer. It was not a comedy, but audience and critics laughed. It was never performed again.”

Azazel looks at the book pointedly and then back to Janos. “Do you somehow think I bought this book to make you angry?”

Janos pauses. He shakes his head minutely. “No, you don’t play those games, but it is an uncommon play and I didn’t know what to think.”

“Getting your attention,” Azazel admits and leans back in his seat, “was secondary benefit to reading it now.” 

“Cabrón.” The headphone’s cup goes right back over Janos’ ear. 

Azazel tugs the cord’s plug from the phone.

Janos snatches the book from Azazel’s hand.

Azazel takes Janos’ phone.

“Hah,” Janos says cheekily. “You lose.”

Azazel smirks back and enters the six digit number. As if he wouldn’t have noticed the number before now. The phone doesn’t, however, unlock: Janos must have changed his code since last night and Az can’t help but be proud of him for doing so. The childishness of their little exchange turns his mood lighter; Azazel’s smile becomes a chuckle, the chuckle a spontaneous kiss to Janos’ cheek.

“You lose,” Janos repeats, his lips barely moving, voice barely audible over the omnipresent roar of the plane’s flight. All the tension of before falls from his face as he continues with a lift to one corner of his mouth, “Que te den por culo.”

“I lose,” Azazel agrees and pulls Janos close again.

Janos doesn’t resist, he escalates. He unlatches his seat belt, twists, and drops back onto Azazel’s lap. Surely the move will net a few looks from the people around them, but even though the plane is headed for New York, Azazel can’t bring himself to put an end to Janos’ display of affection. He had, after all, been thinking about making out with Janos earlier.

From Azazel’s lap, Janos reaches up and tugs at Azazel’s goatee. He’s not gentle about it, either, the bastard. “I promised Sean my silence. If you don’t believe me, it’s your problem, not mine. Instead of treating him gently, be yourself and confront him. Sean is stronger than either of you think; he will survive a few questions, even from you.”

“I see.” And yes, he does see. This is either an amazing performance or Janos is genuinely trying to keep his new commitment to honesty in their relationship. Azazel believes it is the latter, even though he expected there would be more of a learning curve. “I will call him when we get to New York.”

“Good.” Janos releases Azazel’s beard. “And think about shaving.”

“You lost the football match, not me.” Softly, with entirely more affection than he’s truly comfortable expressing, he runs his fingers through Janos’ hair. “July for Omsk?”

Janos turns his head to look at the seat back near Azazel’s knees. Azazel brushes Janos’ hair from his face and behind his ear. In profile, the flatness of Janos’ nose lends itself to feline imagery, perhaps a leopard or lion. Janos is more feline in nature than dog; he demands to be noticed but rarely comes close. Azazel is glad to have somehow been a cat person.

“Winter fashion week is in July,” Janos says to the seat back. “The second half of August is better, but Az…?”

“Yes?” He’s ready to capitulate to anything. Fuck, even though Janos lost the bet, he didn’t think Janos would actually consent to going to Omsk, to actually meeting his family. If Janos asks him to shave now, he’ll collect his shaving kit from baggage claim when they arrive and shave in a public bathroom.

The weight of Janos’ head in Azazel’s lap shifts as Janos faces up again. “Look me in the eyes, Azat Savvich Zelchenko.”

Yebat, it’s either going to be a joke or deadly serious. Az looks down and holds Janos’ firm and clearly serious gaze. 

“Promise me you’ll never ask to go to Granada.”

Blyahd. “Would you prefer I do not ask to meet your family or that I never ask you to go to Granada?”

“Go to Granada if you like,” Janos says, his gaze unwavering, “but never ask me to go with you and never ask to meet my family.”

“Never?” Azazel asks even though he knows the answer. “Fine, I promise, but tell me why.”

Janos redirects his focus up to the ceiling. “If you think I should tell you anything about my life whenever it pleases you, like you did when you asked how my father died, you should leave me again and not come back. Some words you must wait for, Az. Some words I never even tell myself.”

Though the words are spoken lightly, the seriousness of them is clear enough and, Azazel decides, deserved. “You will tell me about your life in Granada in time or never?”

Janos closes his eyes, his chest lifts and falls with a heavy sigh. “In time. If you stay.”


	14. El maleficio de la mariposa (part four)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s basically 3.6K words of sexual content with a side of emotional whiplash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part is unpublished material and things get crazy.

****Sean doesn’t answer Azazel’s call when they get back to New York, but he does reply to text: _There’s nothing going on that you should worry about, bro. All’s well._

When Azazel shows the reply to Janos, Janos scowls and says he’ll talk to Sean. It’s another waiting game, but Azazel can be patient if Janos is being proactive. 

They’ve been back in New York for only a few days before Janos drags Azazel to yet another night club. The music is loud, the drums and bass are enough to trigger an anxiety attack in anyone unfamiliar with the pace, the lights are weaving and flashing in unnatural spectrums, but it’s all just trapping. It’s aural and visual trappings to wrap around the heaving crowd.

Azazel knows Janos prefers to dance in the middle of the mass of gyrating bodies, but there he is on the edge of the dance floor. He has a small group of women surrounding him and that doesn’t bother Azazel at all; Janos is as straight as a corkscrew. Az can’t say he minds women dancing with Janos, as long as they keep their hands to themselves. 

Az stays out of that mess. Janos always asks him to join him and probably he’ll dance with Janos someday, but this isn’t it. With enough alcohol on festive occasions, it’s unavoidable back in Russia and often messy. For now he observes the chaos with alcohol in hand and Janos’ jacket over his arm. He watches the lights catch and refract on the sweat covering Janos’ skin. Watches his body bump and occasionally grind against one of his partners. It’s fine, always fine, because this is a form of seduction; this is what comes before they retire for the night, this is what will be reenacted when they’re stripped and struggling on the hotel bed.

The glass is cool on Azazel’s lips, the alcohol a welcome burn, and the reflection of Janos’ smile is perfect even broken up as it is amongst the condensation.

It’s been a full day for Janos; he’s been up since 6am to workout, play futsal, do a shoot in the cold alleys in clothes that hadn’t kept him warm, and to talk up a photographer friend of Xavier’s about using him in the future. Azazel had met Janos for an early dinner during rush hour and then Janos had nearly two hours of Spanish conversation clients to see. So it’s no surprise to Azazel that the next time Janos comes off the dance floor it’s with two of his dance partners laughing and helping him along.

Azazel finishes his drink and sets the glass aside to greet the three. The women don’t know Az, but Janos is taking them to him, and that means they appear less intimidated than they otherwise might. It’s not everyday somebody as menacing and as scarred as Azazel waits for a lover as handsome as Janos. 

“Are you ready to go?” He only asks for the benefit of Janos’ new friends.

“With you,” Janos says and lurches away from his dance partners. 

Azazel catches the warm and hazy weight of Janos in one arm and pulls him into lean against his chest. Over Janos’ artfully disheveled hair, Az sees the two girls laugh and does his best to smile congenially. “I will take over from here.”

They take a cab back to Azazel’s hotel. Janos is exhausted and a bit drunk so Azazel follows him into the shower to make sure he doesn’t fall or otherwise hurt himself. He means for it to be a quick shower but when Janos soaps up his ass and follows up by plunging his fingers inside himself, Azazel takes Janos’ hands away and cleans him more gently.

“Wait for the bed,” Azazel says in Janos’ ear. “Only a little more.”

Azazel gets them as dry as possible but it’s impossible to dry their hair completely with towels alone. They end up on the bed, studded and streaked with thin rivulets of water. Azazel doesn’t hesitate to fall over Janos and lick these trails from Janos’ skin with passes of his tongue. Water travels Janos’ chest, unimpeded by hair and Azazel presses him down by the shoulders to lick roughly at a dark nipple. When the nub of it hardens Azazel laps more firmly until he hears Janos’ breath catch and feels fingers scratch down his shoulders and dig in at his shoulder blades. 

“Azazel.” 

Janos’ voice is faint and breathy; a sure sign that he isn’t controlling the appearance of his softer emotions as ruthless as he usually does. Maybe it isn’t healthy, but Azazel thanks alcohol for the rare moments when it lubricates the hinges of the iron maiden where Janos keeps his heart. Azazel likes to catch a glimpse through the cracks.

Azazel bestows one last pass of his tongue over Janos’ nipple and pulls back to look at him. Janos is always a sight to behold; more so tonight with his damp hair sticking to his face, trails of water dripping down on him from Azazel’s hair. Janos’ face is soft with a blush and his lips are swollen and wet from teeth and tongue. His eyes are half-lidded: on anyone else these would be stereotypical bedroom eyes, but on Janos this expression is fresh and rare.

Az finds he can’t help himself; he drags himself up Janos’ body and bites gently at his lips. Janos parts his lips under Azazel’s ministration and Azazel takes the invitation and dips his tongue between them. He sinks down over Janos, braces his forearms on either side of his head and slides his fingers underneath to cradle his head. Azazel seeds one kiss after another on Janos’ lips, across his tongue, into his mouth. He sucks at Janos’ tongue, his lips, and Janos responds in kind.

This is far more tenderness and control than Azazel is used to having; usually Janos fights tenderness physically or by taking offense. Janos likes their kisses to be fierce and consuming; this is slower and sweeter than Azazel has managed, or wanted, before. 

At length Azazel releases Janos’ slick mouth and bites gently at his chin to get his attention. “I would like very much to suck your dick tonight.”

Janos’ expression falters for just a moment, his hazel eyes firm a little, and Azazel expects his request to be denied. However, the moment passes and Janos lifts his head from Azazel’s hands to press damp lips to Azazel’s forehead. “Okay.”

One side of Azazel’s mouth tilts in a smile that betrays satisfaction and maybe a little of the smugness he feels at being granted this opportunity. As easily as it is given, it can be taken away, so he wastes no words but lifts himself up on his knees and places his left hand on Janos’ muscular chest. He drags his hand down Janos’ torso and abdomen as he moves backwards down Janos’ body. 

Azazel’s hand rises and falls along the contours of muscles as Janos twists and reaches back for one and then another of the bed’s many pillows. He places them both behind his shoulders so he can better watch what Azazel is doing. Consequently, it also serves to make it easier for Azazel to look him in the eye. 

At the end of the journey, Azazel’s hand grasps Janos’ rising cock. Janos’ eyes shut for a moment, his jaw juts slightly. Azazel smiles at this; it is only the beginning.

He gives a squeeze to the brown-skinned flesh and then releases to settle down between Janos’ long thighs. Whether it’s for the view or comfort, Janos draws his legs up and out slightly; either way, it’s good for Azazel’s access and he makes himself comfortable.

Janos keeps most of his body hairless; he shaves his face and occasionally his under arms and before getting laser removal, he would wax his chest. That was a nice time for Azazel as Janos was remarkably sensitive after waxing; he’d pressed his advantage in those days. Janos only really allows obvious body hair below his waist, even if he’s every bit as fastidious at keeping it maintained. 

Where thigh meets pelvis Janos’ skin and hair is damp with shower water and smells of musk and body wash. Janos finds it uncomfortably strange that Azazel likes how his body smells, so Azazel inhales deeply of his scent under cover of taking Janos’ cock in hand once more. 

But Azazel isn’t as subtle as he thinks; Janos knocks his shoulder with one thigh. “You are my  _novio_ , not my dog.”

Azazel looks across the geography of Janos’ body, up to his face and brings Janos’ cock to his tongue. He looks Janos in the eye and licks a broad, firm stroke up the flesh. “I think you like making men your dogs.”

Janos’ eyes are lidded and hazy. “A dog obeys. You do not.”

That’s something Azazel can’t deny even though he’s been more accommodating to Janos than any other lover save his first clumsy teenage courtships. Time for conversation is finished, Azazel decides, unless making Janos moan counts as speaking. He licks Janos’ cock once more and immediately follows by sucking it, still not quite hard, into his mouth.

One of Janos’ legs kicks out in reaction and Azazel would smile at that were he not busy sucking Janos’ cock to further life. Janos has been blessed with a cock every bit as elegant as he is. It took a little time for Az to get used to the concept of a dick being anything special (having had a casual Ukrainian girlfriend in Toronto with a dick helped) but with Janos he can appreciate what he has the privilege of working with. He likes the taste after a shower; clean, a tang of soap, and faintly salty where the foreskin has protected the head from a thorough rinsing.

Az puts some more suction into his ministrations to get Janos to kick again and feels a rise of victory when he hears Janos gasp instead. Blood is rushing into Janos’ cock quickly, hardening the flesh at a rate Az takes pride in. He pulls up to cover the head with its foreskin and darts the tip of his tongue within to circle around the circumference of the crown. This time Janos’ hips jerk. Az doesn’t pause, but he does push down on Janos’ hipbone with his free hand.

When Janos’ hips begin to push up, Azazel lifts his mouth off and glances up over the shudder of Janos’ abdomen. The skin over Janos’ high cheek bones is starting to turn darker pink and his chest is beginning to show the encroaching of another flush. His skin is growing damp and his eyes are squinting in pleasure but remain open.

Az smirks and Janos replies with a display of his left hand’s middle finger. Azazel can’t suck Janos off while he’s chuckling so he strokes him more firmly as retaliation. The fight doesn’t leave Janos, he brings his left hand closer, but his mouth is open and his eyes squeeze shut for just a moment. Satisfied with this reaction, Az leans up to bite Janos’ finger.

“How about use this hand to pass me lube, eh?”

Janos sneers but complies, fumbling only a little at the bedside table to get the tube. He tosses it at Azazel’s head but it’s nothing for Azazel to catch it before it does either of them any damage. Az drops the tube onto Janos’ abdomen and his mouth onto Janos’ cock.

Twenty-five years ago if anybody had called Az a cocksucker he’d have never let the insult lie until blood and piss had wiped it clean. Now he likes this, likes the way his lips feel over the warm silky skin of Janos’ dick, the weight of blood-engorged flesh on his tongue, the taste that lingers in his mouth even when his mouth is clear.

Az takes his time, waits for Janos to start losing all his extremely impressive control. He sucks him like the sex machine of flesh and blood and bone that he is. In no time at all, the taste of precome spreads across his tongue, and soon Janos’ hips start to churn again, but it’s not enough, not what Az wants just yet, for all it’s happening much faster than when Janos is in charge. Because, as Azazel well knows, Janos thinks too much and needs more control when he’s on top.

It isn’t until his lips are beginning to lose feeling and his tongue starts to feel tired that Janos’ fingers curl into the duvet and his knees draw up. It’s close enough. Janos is aroused enough that his balls are drawn up. It’s decent access but Az wants more so, still sucking away at Janos’ dick, he reaches for Janos’ left ankle and lifts it over his shoulder. 

Azazel retrieves the lubricant and coats two fingers thoroughly. Just like when they fuck, the most important part is just getting the slick inside. It’s more important when Az uses his fingers because, unlike the smoothness of a cock, fingers are dry and his are callused and tend to absorb lube. That said, Janos has more than once admitted that he enjoys the roughness of Az’s fingers when they’re slick.

The first few thrusts into the crushing heat of Janos’s body pry sound from Janos’ throat; his hips jump off the bed and Azazel pushes them back down. Az wants to laugh, but he’d have to take the cock out of his mouth for that. He closes his teeth down as a reminder and Janos makes another gasping sort of moan.

Azazel hasn’t even hit Janos’ prostate yet and he can already tell this is going to end sooner than expected. Janos’ is pulling at the duvet and he’s driving his heel into Azazel’s back. Except in some specific cases Janos is quiet in bed; he fights hard but he doesn’t make a lot of noise. Tonight Janos’ eyes are squeezed tight, he’s gasping and moaning, sweating and flushing red all the way down his chest. 

But Az wants to draw it out a little, so he stops using his left hand to jack Janos’ cock and settles it down on the coiled black hair below. He grasps the base of Janos’ cock in the event he needs to squeeze it enough to stave off an orgasm. Azazel wants to see Janos get as delirious in bed as he was on the dance floor; he wants to be greater than the music, the lights, the dancing.

When it comes down to it, Az can thank all his martial training for the ability to establish independent rhythms between his right hand, which he uses to stroke his long fingers into Janos, his left which holds Janos steady, and his head which he brings up and down Janos’ cock with ruthless efficiency.

“Az…!” 

The cry runs down Azazel’s spine, sparks at his pelvis, and enflames his already hard and dripping cock. He bobs his head a little slower, uses more tongue on the upstroke, drags his fingers out a bit faster only to drive them in again as slow as possible.

“Ah, nng!” 

A hand falls down on the top of his head, but Az stubbornly keeps to his own designs no matter how Janos tries to push. He glances up and sees Janos’ other arm has fallen over his eyes. His face is twisted into an expression of exquisite distress. Azazel considers climbing up his body to move Janos’ arm and to replace the fingers pumping into Janos with Azazel’s deeply aroused cock, but he wants it like this and giving Janos a body to press him down might be too grounding.

When Janos takes his hand away from Azazel’s head he gives Azazel’s hair a good yank. Azazel kind of likes that, but it’s frustrating when Janos drops that arm over the first. He can still see the flat line of Janos’ nose and the panting mouth, but he had wanted to see his face. Azazel supposes he can’t have everything when he has Janos on this ecstatic edge. He already has Janos dripping with sweat and making exquisite sex noises.

“Ah, Az, Az,” Janos says and his tongue is hard on his teeth on the Z just the way Azazel likes. Spanish is pornography in Janos’ mouth. 

Janos is finally where Azazel wants him. He twists his fingers on a thrust in and then curls them up and to rub against Janos’ prostate. 

The intensity of Janos’ reaction is strong; his hips come up off the bed and it’s only Azazel’s left hand on Janos’ pelvis that prevents Azazel from getting choked. It inspires him instead; he goes down deeper, allows Janos’ cock to bump the back of his throat a few times. Simultaneously he presses more firmly against Janos prostate. 

Janos gives a wounded shout; his balls are tight against his body and his legs encircle Azazel’s head and his hips push up as much as Azazel will allow. Yes, this is what Azazel wanted, so he doesn’t prevent Janos’ orgasm. He rides along with it, lets Janos’ pleasure roll over him, tastes his come as it fills his mouth. Best of all, Janos’ arms have gone wide, palms on the bed, leaving his face gloriously clear.

The noise Janos makes as the tension peaks is everything; wounded and exultant all at once. If he were a god Azazel would willingly worship, would lay any sacrifice at his feet.

And after the shuddering crescendo of his body’s orgasm he collapses back on the bed and writhes weakly. He pants audibly and sucks in air in little moans.

Azazel swallows the mouthful of come he’s been left with and smiles; his dick is hard and his balls ache in want as Janos churns slowly on the duvet. Az drags his arm across his mouth and the back of his hand against his beard to clear any remaining come and spit from his face. Probably he’s going to have to jack off in the bathroom, but seeing Janos like this is worth it.

He’s surprised, though, to see Janos slowly contract back into himself. He draws his knees up and closes his arms back over his face; Janos falls to one side and gasps for air. It looks like he’s hiding his face purposely.

“Janos?” Azazel asks.

The writhing becomes shaking. One of Janos’ hands snags the duvet and tries to bring it back down over his head. He’s gasping audibly, but it’s not pleasure at all. It’s misery. Janos, his Yanochka, sounds like he’s starting to cry.

Azazel has never lost an erection faster in his life. 

“Janos,” Azazel says and climbs up the bed and kneels next to him. What kind of sex leaves your lover in this kind of condition? He’s certain he’s hurt him; maybe friction from his fingers or maybe he scraped him somehow with his teeth. But, then, they’ve had more than a few bedroom mishaps that were pretty painful but left neither one of them crying.

Then he remembers that Janos has been victimized before and he worries he’s brought that back somehow. Maybe this is why Janos avoids tender sex. Can a sexual predator be gentle? He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Janos,” Azazel says. “Yanochka, tell me what to do.”

If anything Janos becomes more frantic with the duvet. Azazel reaches over and rests his hand over the back of Janos’. 

Janos slips his hand out from under Azazel’s but then he grips it tight, manicured nails digging into his skin. He pulls Azazel’s hand down to his face and he presses wet lips to the heel of Az’s hand. Janos’ face is dark, his eyes and face are wet, even his nose is running. Unthinkably, Az feels his eyes begin to itch in kind.

Janos pulls Azazel’s hand to his chest, presses his palm to his breastbone and, in another unexpected move, shoves Azazel’s hand away. 

“Janos.” Azazel leans back in surprise.

Janos’ shaking and gasping only renew and his eyes close tight and he chokes, “You left me.”

Azazel’s heart constricts in sudden agony.  _Blyahd._  Yes, he did, but that was months ago and he thought that was over. “I came back, Yanochka. I came back. I am here and I will stay.”

Janos shakes his head and reaches out for the duvet again; this time when he pulls it comes free and he winds himself around the duvet rather than it around him. Janos presses his face into the cotton and murmurs again in Spanish that he left him.

Azazel kneels there, stricken. He doesn’t know what to do but he can’t leave Janos now for fear he’ll make it worse. Carefully, he lowers himself down to the bed and gathers Janos against him; it’s a relief when Janos doesn’t resist.

It doesn’t take long for Janos to cry himself into an exhausted slumber but for Azazel, he doesn’t know when sleep will ever come. He knew that breaking up with Janos had been traumatic but he apologized and he thought it was over and done with. Maybe, he thinks, maybe this is why Janos hides the way he does. Maybe Janos is a far more emotional creature than he ever knew. Maybe Janos is much easier to hurt than he could comprehend. 

A worse option comes to Azazel and the weight of it presses his forehead against Janos’ back. “Yebat, Yanochka, I’m sorry.”

Maybe Janos had loved him with everything he had, all of his heart, back then, back when he left him.


	15. El maleficio de la mariposa (part five)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among the many things Janos probably should have mentioned to Azazel long ago: this isn't the first time he's lived in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Knives and violence make a reappearance but for more plot-sensitive warnings, please check the notes at the bottom.

While Janos is open to talking about the progress, or lack of it, he’s making with Sean, he doesn’t want to talk about the night he cried after sex. He reminds Azazel that he was both drunk and exhausted and then laughs and says in a sultry tone of voice that he’ll have to give Azazel more control in bed like he had when he’d lived in Portland. Azazel doesn’t push, because it is always uncomfortable to be reminded, however vaguely, of how badly he’d treated Janos for the year prior to breaking up with him.

Besides, Az has more current things to worry about; he’s received word from his mother and his sister that his ninety-five-year-old grandmother has been in and out of the hospital lately.

A few days later Janos receives the photos from his Portland furniture warehouse shoot. Azazel admits that Janos knows how to work antique furniture in nothing but a loose knit sweater and his low-slung underwear. However, he didn’t expect Janos to share the camera with a kitten for half the shots. When Raven sees the photos she demands the photographer’s name so she can have him do a show in Quicksilver’s gallery space. Janos’ laughter is a welcome noise as she tells him over a video call how she'll call it the Cock and Pussy show.

A day later Janos has a big photo shoot for Joseph Abboud in upstate New York, and by the weekend he’s sitting in a Manhattan café having a conversation in Spanish with an elegant retiree that is paying him $75 per forty-five-minute block. Janos has many odd jobs, but this one is the most disingenuous as far as Azazel is concerned. Azazel doesn’t think Janos’ conversation clients are really there for Spanish; they’re there to be seen in an expensive café with a handsome and impeccably dressed man.

He can’t really blame them. Besides, some of the ladies and gentlemen that pay Janos for Spanish conversation have valuable connections.

When their time is up, Janos stands and asks if his client is staying on, when she says she must be going, Janos gets her jacket and holds it for her like the disgusting ass he is. Azazel rolls his eyes from across the way and takes out his pack of cigarettes and slips one of the paper-wrapped cylinders out. Janos had perfected this persona before Azazel ever met him and all his conversation clients fall for it. Az checks the time on his phone; Janos has one more Spanish conversation partner lined up and it’s not too late to message his sister.

He means for the conversation with Marina to segue toward bringing a guest to Omsk, but news about their grandmother’s pneumonia dominates the conversation. For a Russian or a Kazazkh, she’s lived a long life, and even if she only forgave their father for taking her favorite daughter to Omsk because his job was important-sounding, well, at least she visited and welcomed them to Almaty when they managed to visit. For all her hospitality, Azazel wasn’t the only one that had been intimidated by her as a child. She could be a harsh and bitter woman with a cutting wit.

Azazel is still outside the cafe, smoking but now holding a text argument with his sister’s daughter when it happens.

She’s his favorite niece and often usurps her mother’s phone. Karlygash doesn’t have her own phone but she does have an account on Russia’s most popular social media account. This isn’t a problem as far as Azazel is concerned, it’s more how she has so many pictures of herself on it. Thus, being her favorite uncle and working in security, his sister brought him into it. Not that he minds. It isn’t depressing like talk of a sick relative and it isn’t the potential minefield that Janos visiting could become.

He’s in the middle of explaining facial recognition software when someone sits down at his table. Someone who isn’t Janos. He casually locks his screen and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

The guy at his table looks well-heeled, so to speak. Scandinavian descent, perhaps. He’s tall and his short, blond hair is nearly white with age. Azazel looks at his eyes, his neck, his hands, and guesses he’s in his late sixties. He exhales the cigarette smoke out his nose with no attempt at all to direct it away from the man. People don’t sit with Azazel unless they have business with him. This is hardly random.

It takes a moment for the guy to speak, but Azazel would wait longer if necessary.

“Do you know the young man inside that gives Spanish conversation lessons?”

Azazel glances at the window and wonders if he’s going to end up killing this guy. He takes another drag on the cigarette and gives the man another once over, but this time he makes it obvious. “Why do you ask?”

The man’s gray eyes dart toward the window glass and then back at Azazel. “You don’t look like a man that wastes time on bullshit. I just want to know if he’s on your payroll or you’re on his.”

It’s not hard for Azazel to hide his growing interest, his face is naturally passive, but he would really like to take this guy into the bathroom and intimidate some information from him.

At first, he thinks he’s the guy Janos caught on video, but, no this man is too staid, too old, too cultured. This man is something else. He’s not mafia, but maybe he thinks Az is. Maybe he thinks Janos can be bought. Then again, maybe this is somebody hired by the blackmailed guy to get information about Janos. In fact, that’s the most likely thing unless Janos is involved in something else Az doesn’t know about. That wouldn’t be a surprise, either.

“No, I do not like bullshit,” Azazel agrees. “How do you know the young man giving Spanish lessons?”

“I would ask you the same,” the man says. "I've never seen you before."

Azazel strikes out the professional investigator possibility after all. This is probably something personal, something local. Janos never said he'd been in New York before, at least not long enough to make a 'friend'. Fucking Janos and his fucking secrets.

“Why waste my time,” Azazel says, “if you think I don’t like bullshit? If you want to know something sometimes you must take a risk.”

The man remains calm. Azazel can respect that even if he expects he’s going to have to do something ugly to the guy in the near future. Azazel unlocks his phone as he waits for the man to put together an answer and opens up his camera app.

“We had an unusual relationship,” the man finally says.

Azazel nods through the roar of blood rushing through his head; more than thirty years older than Janos? Definitely not a typical relationship.

“I see,” he says and takes the picture, “then you will be happy to know I don’t know who you are talking about. Italian, Spanish, all those vowels, it sounds the same to me.”

The man’s frustration at the answer makes trenches of the wrinkles between his eyebrows and across his forehead. Azazel doesn’t sympathize. “Then you won’t care if I go speak with him, will you?”

Bluff called. Azazel looks through the window to Janos’ table. It’s empty, which would be concerning if Janos wasn’t the type that couldn’t take care of himself.

Azazel snorts smoke and shrugs, “Enjoy your little reunion.”

The man’s frustration is evident and can only get worse when Az turns his attention back to his phone and resumes smoking. He isn’t really looking at his phone, though. His eyes are hardly focused at all in order to keep track of the other man.

The guy stands, his chair scraping stone brashly as he goes. He goes without a word and heads for the door inside. Azazel waits for him to enter before he stands and follows.

He knows exactly where this will end up. If the man is serious when he sees Janos isn’t there, he’ll check the relative privacy of the bathroom. Perfect for Azazel, maybe not so perfect for anyone else.

True to form, the older man looks around and sweeps off to the cafe toilets. Azazel isn’t sure if Janos is there or waiting outside; there has been no notification via phone. He isn’t sure what he’ll find in the bathroom other than an opportunity for violence or intimidation.

It’s a small bathroom; two sinks, two urinals and a stall. Nowhere to hide, but Janos isn’t hiding, he’s at the sink, washing his face. Washing his face in a semi-public bathroom? Stress. But it also means that if the other man has said anything, Janos has chosen to ignore it. He doesn’t ignore Azazel, but Azazel ignores Janos when their eyes meet in the reflection and Janos mouths, ‘no’.

The older guy is saying something about money and bygones when Azazel comes from behind and takes the man’s wrist and twists it behind his back. He shoves the hilt of one of his knives in his teeth as a gag. The man goes still in shock (definitely not mafia or a private investigator) but Az twists his arm and kicks his heel to hustle him over into the stall.

Behind them Janos is whispering harshly, “No, no, no! Let him go.”

Az intends to. Eventually. Possibly as a corpse. _Unusual relationship_.

In the stall, Az kicks the back of the man’s knees to force him to kneel and then takes the knife away to free his hand to shove the man’s torso over the toilet bowl.

“I think it is time for introductions,” Azazel says with a genial calm that has been known to make men in the other guy’s position wet themselves. “Please begin.”

“His name is Isaac,” Janos hisses. “Let him go!”

“But we have not been introduced, have we,” Azazel protests with an icy chuckle. “Let the man speak. Isaac, is it?”

“You’ve fallen far, Janos,” Isaac says, surprisingly calm despite the violence and the knife. Azazel is a bit impressed despite himself. “Or has this man always been your handler? Is he the one the money goes to?”

Too bad for Isaac that being impressed has never been a barrier to action: Azazel jams the hilt into the man’s throat to silence him while he jerks his twisted arm. There’s a crunching noise as the man’s shoulder wrenches out of joint, followed by a gargling cry of pain.

Azazel again withdraws the hilt. “I await your introduction.”

“Isaac Heath,” the man croaks. “Stop!”

“Well, Isaac Heath,” Azazel replies, “right now you must have some adrenaline going. Try not to let it make you feel brave; that shoulder will be a bitch when adrenaline wears off. Understand?”

Isaac agrees quickly. “Is it money you want? I have money.”

“Let him go,” Janos repeats. “He’s nothing, nobody.”

“Shut up, Janos,” Isaac says.

“Never mind,” Janos replies, now sounding more offended than anxious. “Drown him in the toilet if you like.”

Janos’ sudden change of heart brings a little warmth to Azazel’s cold smile. “Mr. Heath, I am not interested in your money. I only want one thing: never speak to this man again. Do not come near him. If you see him on street you go another way. If he comes into a room with you, you will leave. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Isaac replies. “Completely. Please let go.”

“Wonderful,” Azazel says and takes his knee away from Isaac’s back. “Since you seem to know each other, I assume the he knows where you live. Remember that when you leave the toilet, eh?”

“I will,” the man replies. “How long would you like me to wait? Before I leave?”

“Fast learner, Isaac Heath.” Azazel releases him and steps back. “Five minutes is good. I just have one question and then I will leave you to wait quietly.”

“Of course, of course,” Isaac says and remains there, bowed over the toilet bowl. “What would you like to know?”

“What was this unusual relationship?”

Azazel sees Isaac’s body stiffen, but then bow again. “I was on the committee that accepted his application. I took… special interest in his mentoring.”

“Enough!”

Azazel looks over his shoulder at Janos, an eyebrow raised at his outburst and then turns back to Isaac. “Application to what?”

“The school,” Isaac says. “He’s exceptionally gifted; you could say it’s in his bloo—”

“Cállate! Cállate!” Janos backs up so fast his back hits the wall with an audible noise. Azazel watches him, surprised to see that Janos has slapped his hands over his ears. “Cállate!”

“Enough,” Azazel says, surprised by the strength of Janos' reaction. He slides his knife away, but Janos has already turned on the ball of his foot and run for the bathroom door.

“Five minutes,” Azazel says, and walks away.

Back in the cafe Azazel sees Janos leave via the front entrance. He’s not running but he’s obviously in a hurry. It’s afternoon and the sidewalk is busy but not unmanageable; following Janos is easy. He’s not making any attempt to lose himself in the crowd or duck into any side streets. That, at least, is a good sign or it means that Janos is too upset to think strategically.

Azazel hangs back, lets Janos walk ahead of him, but doesn’t let him out of sight. He’s not sure where Janos is headed but it’s possible he’s heading for his apartment because the hotel is in the opposite direction.

As they walk, Azazel reflects on what he knows. Isaac Heath works at a school. Janos was a student at that school and had his application reviewed by a committee. Isaac Heath was more than likely fucking him which, considering both their ages...? How old would Janos have been? Early to mid-twenties? When did he go to school? Janos had been twenty-five when he moved to Portland so definitely early twenties.

Regardless, the pisda was fucking Janos while Janos was a student. Az suddenly regrets not wrenching his other arm out of joint. But it sounds like Janos was getting paid in some way. Or, no, perhaps like the talent scout, Janos was, or had been, blackmailing Isaac Heath.

Janos already had an extensive and expensive wardrobe when Az met him in Portland. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could afford on his catalog and other work. Occasionally some wealthy gay men like to groom beautiful young men and Janos is nothing if not beautiful.

He’s always wondered what brought Janos to America. Perhaps it was this school. And why would being exceptionally gifted be in his blood? Why does that sound so familiar?

Azazel mulls these thoughts over and more for the hour it takes to walk to Janos’ apartment building.

He follows him into the building but takes the elevator even though Janos has taken the stairs. He makes it to Janos’ door before him and waits patiently outside instead of letting himself in.

When Janos comes down the carpeted hall, he glances at Azazel but says nothing. He unlocks the door and goes in, but doesn’t bother closing the door behind him. It’s invitation enough for Az.

Janos removes his shoes in the entry and takes off his jacket as he goes through to his room, only pausing to grasp a bottle of brandy as he goes. Azazel sees him drape the jacket on the room’s only chair.

Azazel comes into the room just as Janos slips out of his slacks and folds them over the chair. He leaves his own jacket on and watches quietly as Janos climbs up onto his bed in his shirt and silk boxer briefs, bottle of brandy in one hand.

Obviously, Janos doesn’t want to talk about this, doesn’t want to fight. He rolls onto his side to face the wall.

Unfortunately for Janos, Az wants to talk about it. He walks up to the lofted bed, right next to Janos’ head. “I want to hear it from you.”

“Leave it,” Janos replies and pulls a pillow to his chest. “It is... I can’t... I can’t say.”

If not for the long walk Azazel would be far angrier, which is a blessing because he’s working toward fury. Heat rises and blood rushes like a drunk looking for a fight. “That man asked me about you and I threatened him and dislocated his arm and still I should know nothing? Yebat, this is bullshit Janos. Some things I will wait for but others you cannot hide forever.”

Janos’ voice is muffled, his face now pressed to the pillow. “You shouldn’t have hurt him! I didn’t want you to! This problem is mine only.”

Janos and his bullshit boundaries and his unrealistic expectations that Az just not care about what he does are too much. He’s tried to be patient and he’s tried not to act out of frustration but it’s no longer something he can do.

“Did he trap you? Did he use you? Did you blackmail him?” Azazel would like to stop, but he can’t. He’s given Janos _every_ opportunity to tell him.

“Shut up!” It would have been loud were Janos not muffling himself with a pillow. Janos is rarely ever loud; outside of rough sex it’s only when Janos has been drinking that his volume lifts.

“What school, Janos?” Azazel continues, furious. “One here in New York? Surely you can tell me this small thing!”

The answer is too muffled to be understood but Azazel doesn’t think it was anything about the school. It makes him even more irritated. There’s not a person in the world that frustrates Azazel like Janos does. He’s maddening.

“You came from Spain for this school even though schools in Spain are free. It must be good school and you must have needed money for it. Or, maybe, talented young man like you had scholarship?”

This time Janos’ response is all physical. He flings the pillow to the foot of the bed, turns back to Azazel and reaches out to seize his suit jacket by the lapel.

“I wanted to tell you,” Janos says. His face is wild with anger, his expression fierce, the force of his outburst blasted like a lion roaring straight in Azazel's face. “But you keep pushing and now I don’t want to tell you anything! I will never tell you! _If you want to go, then go!_ ”

Azazel grabs Janos wrist; his hand is still gripping Azazel’s lapel, wrinkling the material. “Lies! If you want me to go you would not hold me to keep me here. You wouldn’t cry when I try to fuck you softly. I want you in my life, but I must have all of you. I am a greedy man, just good things are not enough!”

The outrage on Janos’ face slackens and melts into misery with Azazel’s outburst. He releases Azazel’s jacket and breaks the hold on his wrist. He backs away to the other end of the bed where he sits with his face in his hands. “I give you more than anyone. I give you everything.”

“It is unequal,” Az says, anger with his frustration dimming after both their outbursts. He walks around the bed to be closer to Janos again. “You lived through my worst. My insecurities were violent and I did not treat you well because of them. If you fear I will find you ugly on the inside, as you have said before, I assure you it is no problem. I enjoy violence, Janos; surely I am the ugly one. Think about what I did to that old man.”

“I can’t tell you,” Janos says. “Not like this. I want to tell you because I choose it. I want to be strong enough to choose it.”

Azazel sighs and turns his back to the wall. The very real possibility that Janos isn’t going to tell him anything has risen again, but he reminds himself that Janos has come through before. He told him about the talent scout, that he has a long history of being a victim of sexual misconduct, and volunteered that his father had died. And when Azazel asked how his father died, Janos had answered.

He takes a deep breath and decides on one last attempt today. He takes off his jacket and leaves it with Janos’ on the chair and climbs up on the bed.

It’s not as steady as the bunks on any of the ships he’s been on, but the platform seems like it will hold them both. It’s cramped and claustrophobic, but it smells like Janos and that is strongly in the bed’s favor.

Azazel sits next to Janos and draws out his phone. He unlocks it, dispels the camera app, and dashes an apology off to his niece and sister. Then he writes a message to Janos and sends it.

Janos has said nothing and continues to sit with his face in his hands and his elbows on his thighs. That’s fine with Azazel; he takes his phone and presses it to Janos' stomach.

Janos doesn’t respond at first, but long after the screen has locked itself again, he drops one hand and covers Azazel’s with it. He grips Azazel’s hand tightly for several seconds and then takes the phone.

Azazel says nothing but he leans over to unlock the phone again.

Janos looks at the app.

> _Sometimes you must take control of situation before it controls you. If you do not, other people will distort your story. 5:37pm  ✓_

Janos stares at the phone for a long time, only moving to touch the screen when it dims. Eventually he starts composing and then deleting messages. It’s a slow process but he manages to type one he can show Azazel.

There are only two words: _I’m scared_.

“Yebat,” Azazel says quietly. He wants to smoke but he killed his pack on the way here. He leans over and puts his arm around Janos and holds him firmly. “I see. Tell me what hurts. What makes you fear.”

Janos tilts his head to press against Azazel’s cheek and opens the bottle of brandy he brought up to the bed with him. He takes a drink and then turns back to the phone. It continues to be a challenge but he manages to hash out another reply:

_I was very stupid before. I don’t want you to know how stupid I was. So just ask me one thing today. Just one._

Azazel shakes his head. He assumes that ‘before’ means before they met. “You are not stupid.”

No response is forthcoming from Janos so Azazel thinks about the message and what kind of question to ask. “One question today and one tomorrow?”

Janos shakes his head.

“Okay,” Azazel says and decides that if he only has one question to ask, he might as well make it count. “Why did you decide to leave Spain?”

The phone drops into Janos’ lap and hits the brandy bottle with a dull clack. Janos runs his fingers through his hair and then clutches the back of his head.

Azazel takes his arm from around Janos’ shoulders and begins rubbing at Janos’ neck. “Take your time.”

He takes almost ten minutes, another crack at the brandy, and Azazel has to unlock the phone again. The composition of the message this time is hasty when Janos finally types it out:

_I made a big mess back in Spain. I don’t regret all of it, but I thought I could have a new start somewhere nobody knows me._

A big mess back in Spain, Azazel muses. Well, that’s new information. Not specific but new. “What kind of mess? If I have only one question you should give fuller answer.”

Janos looks away and then takes the phone back. His writing this time is hesitant and full of more deletions and rewrites. This time when he offers Azazel the phone’s face, he pointedly looks in the opposite direction. He takes another drink, caps the bottle, and sets the brandy on the lofted bed’s narrow, headboard shelf.

_I was popular with a certain kind of men. Rich older men liked to fuck me and I liked to take pictures. After I left them I would sometimes use the photos to get money and favors but sometimes just because I liked to see them cry._

_But one of the men decided that he would not give me favors anymore. It was a problem so I thought I should leave for a while._

The anger and concern of before turns cold in Azazel’s gut. He can’t help but think back to the beginning of the relationship to recall if Janos ever took video or pictures of them fucking. With a sinking realization, he remembers that Janos had, but that he had taken video without including their faces. At the time, Janos had just seemed to enjoy taking video of riding cock or getting his ass ploughed. After a while Janos sent fewer provocative videos and more provocative pictures of just himself to entice Az when he was away.

It’s clear Janos had never planned to blackmail him. In retrospect, Janos had become increasingly conscientious about what he recorded and what he shared with Azazel. Since they’d gotten back together he hadn’t taken a single video or photo of them having sex.

Of course not, though. Janos has always maintained that he wanted Azazel seriously from the start. There was no way for Janos to know how much money he had, but if Isaac Heath is the usual sort Janos had entrapped then Az never fit the profile. Azazel is about fifteen years older, but judging by Heath, Janos was after people thirty years his elder. People with considerable wealth and reputations to uphold.

Azazel had expected many things, but not something quite like this. On one hand, he’s a little disgusted but on the other, if this comes of the sexual abuse, he can’t help but applaud Janos for finding a way to make his abusers suffer. But the cost, it’s too much and too toxic; eventually, like it did in Spain, this will catch up to him.

Azazel looks over at Janos; how he’s facing away, how stiff his posture has become, the way his jaw is jutting, and his brow has knit in a sort of anger. He’s defiant. Defiant, most likely because he expects the end of their relationship. As well he should; few people could trust a partner after such a revelation.

But to Az it speaks of resilience and defiance and the sort of daring he’s always known Janos for. Janos is a vengeful man and Azazel doesn’t consider that a flaw. He is also an emotional man and that is also no flaw.

He takes the phone out of Janos’ hand and sets it aside, then he takes Janos’ hands and holds them. “Lay down and rest with me.”

Janos turns his head and furrows his brow. His confusion is obvious, his mouth twisted.

“Your day has been very hard,” Azazel says. “You should rest and I will watch over you.”

Janos brow lifts though it remains furrowed. He’s clearly unsure and probably afraid to trust in Azazel. Azazel pulls on Janos’ hands and drags him along to lay down on the bed.

It’s too small for both of them and necessitates that they lay together on their sides. Though he hesitates, Janos allows himself to be held from behind. He accepts how Azazel presses his nose into his hair and inhales deeply. He doesn’t pull away when Azazel firmly kisses the back of his neck and then his shoulder.

“You are a little fucked up, Yanochka,” Azazel says, “but I want you.”

This time Janos doesn’t shake or gasp. He draws a shuddering breath and Az has the sense to know it isn’t like the inexplicable time after they had sex the other night. This time the subdued emotional release is probably relief. Azazel knows what to do now because it comes at a normal interval: he turns Janos over to face his chest. Janos’ hair has grown out enough to cover his eyes but not the wetness beneath them nor the compressed line of his mouth. Janos is trying to contain his emotion even now, but it’s too great for him to succeed. Azazel folds his arms around Janos’ shoulders and rests his chin on the top of his head.

Subconsciously he tracks the growing dampness of his shirt collar, but actively Azazel thinks about the danger this situation presents, what he can do to protect Janos, and how he can protect himself should Janos’ victims find out about him and attempt to turn the tables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: past dangerous and toxic sexual behaviour, entrapment, sex for the purpose of blackmail. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Next week: another Interlude with unpublished material from when these two asshole first got together, when things got bad, and maybe a piece from Janos' pov from after the break up._


	16. Interlude: Short works ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four short pieces, three are previously unposted. 
> 
> Warnings for: psychological and emotional abuse, frightening and controlling behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be some inconsistent spelling. I bought my previous laptop in America so my spelling and such was American. This new one I bought in New Zealand, which is a British commonwealth. But I wrote a lot of this stuff on my phone while living in Japan.

**_Honeymoon_**  (month four of the relationship)

Azazel doesn’t mind the loft’s cold in late December; it’s more like early Autumn in Siberia. But it’s not that great that the loft only has one bathroom and cleaning up after sex means leaving Janos’ room to get to it.

At least Janos’ door is the closest to it; only three steps to the left. Az closes the gap in two.

Inside the bathroom Az stands at the two-sink bathroom counter and quickly washes the come from his stomach and the vestiges of come and lube from his cock and groin. He rinses the washcloth out in hot water, wrings it out, and heads back to Janos’ room. 

Janos is standing near his big window when Azazel comes back. He looks good with sunlight gilding his drying sweat gold. He has an urge to clean Janos up by hand but simply holds the steaming cloth out to him. Things aren’t formal enough between them for that kind of tender behaviour.

Janos nods his thanks and washes himself off. 

“If you hate cold, why stand so close to window?” Az asks.

Janos looks outside again. “The sun is rare here in winter.”

That makes sense. Janos is an Andalusian Spaniard and that part of Spain is a blazing furnace. He probably misses his home especially with one of his roommates with his family for the holidays and the other working late hours.

Azazel would certainly miss his family if they celebrated Christmas, but as it is he already visited for their New Year. But Janos hasn’t mentioned visiting family at all and in Spain Christmas is a big deal.

“Are you not Christian?” Azazel finally asks. “Do you celebrate Christmas?”

Janos turns back and hands Azazel the wash cloth. “I'm Catholic.”

He walks to the bed and drops back on it while Azazel considers the washcloth in his hand. He has the distinct impression that Janos isn’t pleased with the question and has just dismissed it and him.

Well, it could be worse, he supposes, but he’s not this pretty man’s servant. He drops the cloth on Janos thrifted vanity and turns back to join him on the bed.

The bed smells good. It smells of both of them, of their sex, Janos’ lotions and moisturisers, and cologne. He pulls Janos over to him and sticks his nose in the back of his neck. Janos laughs as Az smells his hair. 

“I always use that for you,” Janos says. “You may not recognise me without it.”

“Do you think I am a dog?” 

Janos shakes his head. “Maybe a beast but no dog.”

“I see,” Azazel replies and runs his fingers through Janos’ hair. He takes good care of his appearance but Az thinks that maybe he likes Janos’ hair best; it helps him forgive himself his infatuation with a man. He’s fucked men, he dated a woman with a dick for a year or so, but he’s never had a relationship with a man. If that’s what this is. It’s more like a one-night stand that’s lasted four months, nine weeks of which he’s been on ships or in Russia.

“You do not go home for Christmas?” Azazel asks. He knows questions like this are not appreciated but he asks them to find the borders Janos never explains.

As expected, Janos’ jaw tightens and his eyes narrow. “And you do?”

There must be problems back in the Andalusian furnace. “My father is only Christian in my family and only in name.”

Janos makes no reaction to his statement at all so Az pushes just a bit more. “And he died last year.”

Janos’ jaw works but he turns his head to look at Azazel. “If you cared for him, then I am sorry for your loss.”

Az smirks at that and crowds up against Janos. “Your sympathy is conditional? I am sure your Jesus would be disappointed.”

A breathless laugh bursts from Janos and he punches Azazel in the arm. “Que te den! After all my sins, fucking a sacrilegious man is too much.”

Az snorts lightly and grabs the edge of one of the sheets and pulls it over them to doze. “You should have been more careful to attack first and ask questions later.”

This time when Janos punches him it feels like a small victory. Pleased with the victory he’s content to dose.

The clouds have returned the next time his eyes open and he’s starting to wonder if Janos is up for another round of sex. But then he feels Janos dragging a finger up and down his arm.

“Not temporary,” Az says dryly.

“I can imagine how sad you are about that,” Janos replies. “Is this a Russian heavy metal band?”

It’s almost an accurate description. “We did carry heavy metal,” Az says, “but mostly we were in the business of violence.”

He marks that Janos’ finger ceases its tracing. Janos doesn’t say or ask anything. It isn’t that Janos isn’t curious, only that he always treads carefully when it comes to past events.

When Az looks at Janos he can see no fear or pity or disgust. He only sees interest that’s probably held in check with respect. It’s one of many things Az likes about Janos’ personality.

“Have you heard of Spetsnatz?”

Janos shakes his head. 

“Special forces,” Az explains. “My division is anti-terrorist.”

Janos continues in silence but his hand speaks for him: he traces his fingers over many of the scars littering Azazel’s skin.

“Not all of them are from then,” Az says. “Some are from Afghanistan and some from bad behaviour.”

Janos’ gaze lowers back to the tattoo. “Are you proud of it?”

“Of course,” Azazel replies. “Getting invited into Spetsnatz Alfa group is very difficult. Our missions are challenging and dangerous.”

Janos gives a small shrug. “Well, it’s very ugly, but not so bad as that hair on your face.”

Az huffs a small laugh and grabs one of the pillows and slings it into Janos’ face.

Janos coughs and seizes the pillow and raises it up over his head to bring it down on Azazel, but Azazel just grabs him around the waist and tosses him over his shoulder. For good measure he brings the flat of his hand down on Janos’ ass.

“Spetsnatz, Janos,” Azazel chuckles. “Why do you think you can win pillow fight against special forces, eh?”

Janos slips off Azazel’s shoulder, but he doesn’t get far because he’s debilitated with laughter. Azazel drops over him and crushes the pillow between them.

“Pillow is dangerous weapon,” Az continues. “You must master knives, guns, and explosives before you can earn responsibility of pillows.”

Janos’ face is turning red and his eyes are tearing up with hilarity. Az grins down at him and wonders again how many other people see Janos like this. He wants very much to believe he’s the only one. He may not be handsome, he may have an ugly tattoo, but maybe only he can make him laugh like this. Both Janos’ roommates have said Janos laughs more with Az than anyone else. Az wants it to be true.

But in the end thoughts like that are dangerous. Best, he thinks, to live in the moment and enjoy his bewitching Spaniard beauty while he has him.

* * *

 

 ** _A devil possessed_** (a year and eight months into the relationship, or, eight months after _Anniversary_ )

Janos doesn’t always meet Azazel at the airport, but Az can’t say he doesn’t like it when he does. It’s like Janos treats it as a special occasion and an opportunity to be savoured.

It’s spring and Janos is easy to pick from the crowd waiting at the gate for it. Not that Azazel needs the splash of color in the crowd to go by; his training has prepared him to identify all sorts of things in a crowd and Janos’ body language is just as clear to him as the floral suiting he’s wearing. The white base fabric looks good against Janos’ golden skin, the pink and red of the flower print brings out the color of his lips and the green and brown of the leaves and stems do amazing things with his hazel eyes. 

His hair falls around his face the way that makes Azazel a little crazy and down onto his shoulders in waves he thinks Janos knows echoes the curves of the ‘wind blown’ look the fabric’s print is going for.

All around the crowd, people are looking at Janos. A few teens are taking taking furtive pictures. A woman is suspiciously close and looks like she’s talking. Janos only shakes his head, says nothing, pretends not to understand English.

There’s absolutely no way Az can tone down the wickedness of the grin pulling his imperfect lips up nor the widening of his eyes or, he’s sure of it, the widening of his pupils on seeing his exquisitely handsome lover. He sees Janos and he feels... weak. He hates it and yet, looking at Janos, he recognizes he has somehow gotten his hands on a top prize. It makes him weak and yet, fine things are worth having. Janos is worth having.

If any of his friends or associates could appreciate Janos for what he is, they’d all joke about offing Az to take him. However, that will never happen. Janos is a prize, but only as long as Azazel keeps him hidden. And how to hide somebody that likes so much to be seen?

Az strides through the gate and Janos _leans_ forward, bites his lips, and his eyes brighten up. The pretty woman next to Janos looks around for who draws him, but Az notes her eyes don’t land on him. Better for her; he doesn’t consider himself for show like Janos.

For his own pleasure, and to grind any of the noses pointed Janos’ way into the dirt, Azazel doesn’t accept Janos’ initial European greeting: going for a handshake and half hug. No, he drops his bag and coat and goes for a full hug and a very intimate kiss on Janos’ warm lips. 

Janos closes his eyes for the press of lips, but Az glances meaningfully at the woman to the side. She’s horrified. Az smiles into the kiss before he pulls back and adjusts Janos’ clothing, not because his clothes need adjusting, but because he can. 

“You look good,” Azazel says and then brushes a lock of hair off Janos’ forehead. It falls right back into place. He leaves it.

“You are in one piece,” Janos says, smiling broadly the way he does with only one side of his mouth.

“Most important pieces are, anyway,” Azazel replies, none-too-quietly.

This brings Janos’ lopsided smile into a full grin. “I want proof.”

“I will give you my proof,” Azazel says and bends down to get his bag. Janos takes his coat and folds it carefully over his arm.

On the way to the rental car pick up, Azazel keeps one proprietary hand pressed to the small of Janos’ back. They are an odd couple; Azazel all in somber black and Janos a riotous spring whirlwind. He doesn’t look the type to have someone as special as Janos, but it only makes Az want to flaunt Janos all the more.

The rental smells like air freshener but Azazel only cares for the scent of Janos cologne and hair product. Before he starts the car he drags Janos over and, mindful of Janos’ clothes, takes his time invading his mouth

Even though Azazel is taking care not to stress Janos’ clothing, Janos seems to have no thought for his clothes. Despite their height, Janos tries to crawl into Az’s lap. He hangs onto Azazel’s neck and kisses him with such pressure and enthusiasm that Azazel’s cock immediately starts to feel constrained. 

He never gets used to how much emotion Janos throws into greeting him when Azazel’s been away for any amount of time. He used to think it was an act but, blyahd, this is no act; Janos always misses him when he’s gone.

It’s hard to hold back when Janos is like this. He wants to get back to Janos' loft and fuck him hard and fast just to take the edge off of the reckless desire he feels for him. Fucking Janos; there are times Azazel thinks he’s obsessed with him.

It’s not easy but he pushes Janos back in the passenger seat. They both have to catch their breath but Janos smiles the whole time. His lips are even more blushed now and puffy from the aggression of their kisses.

“When we get to your place,” Azazel says, voice half wrecked, “I will fuck you as hard as necessary to keep you in bed all weekend.”

Janos smile grows dark and smoldering. “You will try.”

Az starts the car and they head to the loft. As they go Janos turns on the classical music station and leans back in his seat.

“I have good news,” Janos says. “One of my photographer friends showed a talent scout for Wilhelmina his portfolio and she wanted my contact information.”

Az looks over to check Janos’ expression and then fishes out his cigarette case. Thankfully Janos always brings him a lighter since he can’t take one on the plane. 

“Is this agency in Vancouver?” 

Janos takes the case, places a cigarette between his lips and lights it. He takes a drag on it and leans forward to playfully blow it into Azazel’s mouth. Azazel pushes him back but takes the cigarette. “Is the agency in Vancouver?”

Janos’ leans farther away than Azazel’s push can account for. “They have an office in Vancouver but the better one is in New York.”

Azazel takes a deep and burning drag on the cigarette. Janos lowers the windows to chase the smoke out, but Azazel considers bringing the windows right back up.

“It’s good news,” Janos says, but he’s not smiling.

And that’s fine with Azazel because he doesn’t think this is good news or that Janos deserves to smile about it. It’s bullshit news. 

“Vancouver is not so far from Portland,” Azazel says. He’s said this so many times before that it makes him feel stupid to be saying it again. Janos is making him feel stupid; he keeps making Az repeat this like a nagging grandmother. “Now New York, that is far and people are unfriendly in your industry.”

“You said this before,” Janos says.

The words are like fire on gasoline fumes. Az immediately pulls the car off the side of the road. He can feel the burning fury eating him up from the inside and knows he can’t be driving when it hits him.

Janos’ eyes are wide and his hands come up about chest height like he’s going to catch something. It’s a stupid move; his hands don’t even close into fists. What does he think he’s going to catch? Sense?

The inside of the car is stagnant and still. Outside traffic moves past but inside there is only smoke and tension.

“Why do I repeat myself, Janos? Tell me.”

Janos’ hands drift down to his thighs and he looks out his window. He says nothing. This is how Janos is with everyone else. Az takes another deep drag on the cigarette and lets the silence linger a bit.

“Why do I repeat myself?”

Janos turns his head. “Because I don’t tell you what you want to hear.”

“True,” Azazel admits. “And if you will make me repeat that, you can repeat to me what happens if you move to New York.”

There’s a slight curl to Janos’ upper lip and then he shoves his body back hard into the car seat. “I'm no child for you to discipline, Azazel. I haven’t even been contacted by the scout yet. If you are going to be angry then wait until I do something.”

Azazel crushes the cigarette filter between his teeth. “Blyahd, Janos why tell me at all?”

Janos turns in a sudden fury. “Because it is something I've worked for! You have no idea how I sacrifice for this! It is good news!”

“You are always throwing it in my face that you want to leave!” Azazel wants to keep his voice low, but fucking Janos makes him crazy. “What is good about that?”

“I am sharing!” Janos shakes his head and slams his fist onto his own thigh. “I am sharing my life and my dream!”

That makes Azazel snort in sarcastic amusement. “Oh yes, Janos Quested, famous for sharing his life with his lovers. What do I know about you? You are eldest boy in family and your grandmother taught you to cook. And you are Andalusian. Tell me more about how you share!”

Janos’ knuckles turn white. Az hopes he’ll throw a punch like the time Azazel teased him about being pretty like his mother

But Janos throws no punches, instead his left hand descends to the seatbelt. Azazel grabs him by the wrist and lifts Janos’ hand up.

“What? You will walk home? Shame to risk nice clothes and shoes that way.”

Janos’ voice is shaking when he says, “I need air. There is no air in here.”

A long pause passes between them. Azazel keeps his grip on Janos’ wrist longer than he feels he really should, but he can’t make himself release him right away. He can’t do the right thing the way he should and it makes everything even worse.

Finally, he wills his fingers apart and reaches down to release the seatbelt himself. “I will wait right here.”

Janos wastes no time getting out of the car. He slams the door behind him and then rocks the car when he slams his back against the door.

Azazel sits silently in the driver seat, working quietly through his cigarette. Now that Janos is out of the car he finds himself staring at the floral print pressed against the passenger side window. He wonders if Janos dressed so smartly today just to soften the blow. But, no, Janos has always done little things like this just for Azazel’s pleasure. Grooming, dressing to impress, using the hair products that Azazel likes the smell of. 

Azazel takes another deep drag of air via the cigarette. And another. And another until he kills it off and he feels calmer. Janos’ back is still against the door and Az finds himself asking himself why. Why he’s sitting here and why Janos is outside the car breathing dirty city air?

Because he’s being a dick, that’s why. Blyadh, why can’t Janos understand he doesn’t want to lose him? Azazel hates that he gets so out of control when the topic comes up, but he doesn’t know how _not_ to escalate the issue whenever it gets aired. It fills him with such unreasonable fury every single time. A year ago he would have just accepted it; it’s frustrating that he’s gotten so... _addicted_ to Janos. He’s worse than cigarettes.

But he doesn’t want Janos to stand out there, not when he just got into town. They’re supposed to be having a good time together like they used to and he’s fucking it up by mocking Janos’ issues with his past. Everyone knows that’s sensitive shit.

He wants another cigarette, but Az gets out of the car instead. Unlike Janos, he’s easy on the car door.

Janos is often a little skittish after they have a fight like this, so Azazel takes it slow, comes to a stop a good distance away and leans against the car, too.

“I should not have mocked you.” It’s true and he has no trouble apologizing for that. It’s the other topic he can’t speak on. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready for.”

Janos tips his head back and stares up and the heavy-bottomed clouds. His nostrils flare as he drags in a deep breath, but he says nothing.

“Let’s go back to your place,” Azazel suggests softly. “you will be more comfortable there and we don’t have to talk at all.”

“I like talking,” Janos says. “It’s you that makes it hard.”

“I apologise,” Azazel says and draws a little closer. 

When Janos seems unconcerned by his proximity he reaches out carefully and places a hand on Janos’ bicep. Janos looks down at his hand but makes no move to disengage. It seems safe to pull gently and drag an unresistant Janos into his arms, flower print silk and all.

“Let’s forget about all this, Janos,” Azazel says. “I will make it up to you.”

Janos allows his head to fall forward and hit Azazel’s shoulder. “Yes, until next time.”

Azazel brings a hand up to settle at the back of Janos’ head. Until next time, indeed. Because until Janos gives up on New York there will always be a next time.

* * *

 

 ** _Mismatched_** (after the break up, before the makeup)

Janos is getting angry.

“Fuck,” Carlos says, his voice wracked with exertion, speech punctuated with gasps for air as he strains to keep up with Janos. “You’re a nightmare to fuck!”

Lip curling up, Janos drops down on Carlos hips and takes all of Carlos’ cock in the process. He thought Carlos would be better. It wouldn’t be the first time his expectations were too high.

“Did you think me a maricon?” Janos says and shoves Carlos’ shoulders down on the bedspread. “Because I like it in the ass?”

Sweat stands out all over Carlos’ body, he’s straining to push up into Janos, but he hasn’t given up yet. “I never said that!”

“Then fuck me like a man,” Janos says and rears up and sets up a harder rhythm. He slaps the redhead’s thigh hard, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to make Carlos swear. “Or are you the maricon?”

The truth is, Carlos does fuck Janos like a man; how could he not? The truth also is, he’s not what Janos wants. The deception Janos tries to embrace is that if Carlos could please him sexually he might be able to develop feelings for him.

However, it takes way too long and even Janos’ thighs begin to ache. Swearing under his breath, Janos pulls off Carlos’ cock and turns around. He moves up the bed and places his hands on the wall. “This way.”

Carlos gets up immediately and runs his hands from Janos’ shoulders all the way down his back. He takes handfuls of Janos’ ass and squeezes. “Finally. You just have to loosen up, Janos. Relax and let me take care of you.”

Janos gives up on the sex being emotionally satisfying and jacks off while Carlos fucks him from behind. It’s not really Carlos’ fault that he doesn’t have what it takes. Janos is used to being demanding and, at his worst, selfish in bed. Azazel had been one of the special few that knew how to channel or redirect Janos’ impulses. 

Poor Carlos is one of the clueless ones. In the end, he doesn’t even enjoy watching himself in the mirror. He comes hard, but only because it took so long and when it’s over he immediately leaves Carlos to finish himself off alone. Janos’ body feels good, but his head feels bad. He steps into Carlos’ tiny shower and turns up the cold water.

He tells himself it will take time to get used to Carlos. It will take time to teach Carlos what he likes. Until then Janos falls back into old habit and just take what he wants from Carlos. It’s just a shame Carlos is so boring. He has excellent style, he’s beautiful, he knows all the best places to eat, even has connections that he’s shared. Carlos is a good guy. Azazel was not. Carlos clearly wants to make things work, also unlike Azazel. More the fool Azazel.

Janos shuts off the water, towel-dries his hair, and spends a few moments looking himself over in Carlos’ mirror. Yes, more the fool Azazel, he thinks, to fuck things up with him. Not just anyone can keep Janos by their side without significant wealth or influence. Azazel had him two years. Only one other man can make the same claim and Janos avoids thinking about him. Only two men have ever gotten under Janos’ skin, but at least the first understood Janos’ worth.

Uneasy with the turn his thoughts have taken, Janos goes back to Carlos’ bed. Carlos pulls him close and Janos allows it. Janos even feels his spirits lift, just a little, when he feels Carlos carefully arrange his hair and then kiss his shoulder. Maybe Carlos has potential after all. He wishes it was possible.

“You’ll break out of this mood yet.” He presses his lips Janos’ shoulder again. “I don’t know who hurt you, but you’re better off without him.”

Janos says nothing. He leaves it to Carlos to decide if he’s being ignored or if Janos has fallen asleep.

Hours later, though, Janos is still awake and his mood has taken a turn for the poisonous.

If Janos is honest, and he rarely is recently, he would kick himself out of Carlos’ bed and admit that this isn’t going to work for him. He would admit it to himself that he’s having trouble moving on and that nothing but a dangerous fling with somebody that could destroy him can take his mind off Azazel. Carlos is too safe, too mediocre.

He turns to look at the brassy curls and feels his upper lip lift in disgust. Carlos is a brassy-wooled sheep. Janos moves on his side and unlocks his phone to scroll through the many contacts he’s made. Maybe, just maybe, he should go back to Dr. Heath and try to make up with him. They’re in the same city again after all. It would be a test of his skills to see if his mentor would take him back now he’s no longer a student. Then again, Dr. Heath probably took all the blackmail personally.

But it would take everything Janos has to pull it off and maybe that would fill up all the gaps Azazel has left him.

* * *

 

 _ **Cunning**_ (current timeline)

“This isn’t what I meant,” Janos bitches from the bathroom floor. He’s in here because the hotel carpet supposedly ‘feels disgusting’. Having had to do push-ups on a barracks bathroom floor numerous times in the army, however, had made Azazel shake his head in disbelief; they have different ideas about disgusting.  
  
Now, he just turns a page in the Spanish language version of  _Perfume_  he picked up. He thinks he would like it better in the original German; his Spanish needs work, though. “I said I would help,” Azazel says absently, “and I am helping. I helped you clean, yes?”   
  
Janos nearly knocks Az back into the bathtub when he sits up from another push-up. Had he been watching he would have pulled his feet off Janos’ back faster. Fortunately Az has all his reflexes though he mainly does maintenance work outs when he’s away from work.   
  
“I'm not a foot rest, cabron,” Janos sneers. It’s an attractive expression and Azazel would be a liar if he said he didn’t piss Janos off on occasion just to see it. It turns his crank, so to speak.  
  
Azazel uses the book to gesture back at the floor. “Go ahead, I promise no more foot rest.”  
  
The sneer fades and suspicion takes it’s place. Janos’ eyes narrow but he eventually drops back down on the floor and starts his push-ups again. True to his word, Azazel closes the book over his finger to keep his place, and then stands. He takes one step over Janos’ torso and promptly sits down on his back.  
  
Janos’ chest flattens to the floor with an inelegant whoosh of air. His next beleaguered breath is huge and fuels a Spanish language tirade of invective and abuse.  
  
Azazel can’t help but smile; he opens the book back up. “At least you can do ten.”  
  
Just for spite Janos does twenty. And, after, when Janos’ arms are weak as over-cooked noodles, he heaves the complaining Spaniard over his shoulder and takes him from the bathroom and out to the bed. 


	17. Butterfly effect (Part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's bad timing, but there are some things Azazel is powerless to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how many parts there are to this arc, but I'm currently writing the part directly after this one.

**_Butterfly effect (chaos theory_** )

It’s the middle of the night when Azazel’s phone vibrates with a call over Signal. Az is loath to disturb Janos, but it’s either a call from his business partners or from family so he concedes the importance and pulls the phone from his pocket and unlocks the face. The call is from his sister. Things have probably taken a turn for the worse with their grandmother.

He answers it quietly. “Turn up your volume, I don’t want to wake the person next to me.”

There’s a pause, longer than expected, but then his sister says, “Is she so special you don’t want to get out of her bed to talk to me?”

Azazel looks down at the top of Janos’ head and gently caresses his dark hair. He’s been meaning to tell his sister anyway. “Yes.”

Marina swears softly. “Az, are you serious?”

“Yes.” He combs his fingers through Janos’ hair and rests his hand on the back of Janos’ head. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while.”

“Mama is going to be ecstatic,” Marina says, but the delight in her voice is shaded with something else. This isn’t why she called after all. “Finally, you’re starting to think about making a family.”

“That’s a little far.” Azazel bows his head to smell Janos’ hair before asking, “Why did you call?”

Even across the ocean and most of Europe the distance doesn’t completely rob Marina’s sigh. “Grandmother won’t make it much longer.”

It’s not really a surprise but Azazel’s heart sinks anyway. His hand stills on Janos’ neck. “Funeral?”

“I don’t think you have time. If she dies on our way there our aunties aren’t going to wait for us to get there to wash her body. You’ll have to leave for Almaty as soon as possible; Islamic funeral rites move very quickly, you know. I don’t think you’ll make the funeral, but do you think you can make it to the burial? It’s afternoon here, if she makes it until after sunset you might get twenty-four hours.”

“I’m not at sea,” Azazel says, because that says everything. “I’ll be there within twenty-four hours. How is mama?”

“She’s been strong,” Marina says. “She’s packing right now. Do you want to talk to her? If you tell her about your girlfriend I think she’ll cheer up, even if your woman is American. She’s wanted a grandchild from you more than any of us.”

Azazel sighs and lifts his free hand from Janos’ neck and sinks his fingers deep into his dark hair. The timing on this isn’t right, but letting them make the assumption now could mean it would get quickly out of hand. “I never said girlfriend.”

Marina makes an exasperated noise. “I told you American is okay. Is she covered in tattoos or something? A prostitute? Ugly? You know I don’t care. Papa was pretty ugly and we loved him anyway.”

Az sighs through his nose and takes the phone away from his face. He quickly goes through the pictures on his phone for one of the shots of him and Janos together. He comes across one of his favorites of Janos from a year ago. It’s a shot of him playing soccer for the Nike catalog which was rejected because the Nike branding had been blocked in the shot. That one is sent first instead. Then he finds the one Janos took on the train back in New York. It isn’t too incriminating, but in context his sister will probably understand.

“I sent you two files.”

He listens quietly as she opens them. “Did you send me the right thing? Who is he? Who does he play for? He’s gorgeous... Ah. Ahhhh? _Ahhhzahhht_? Is that who’s next to you?”

“He’s had a rough day,” Azazel says, absently petting Janos’ hair and staring at the ceiling. “I would prefer not to wake him.”

“You’re the last person I would expect to be... To expect to become so Western.” Her voice has become very quiet, likely because she’s not alone. “But your happiness is my happiness. I need time to get used to the idea.”

“For now, it’s our secret,” Azazel says, smiling a little to himself at Marina’s assumption about Western influence. “I’ll talk to mama after the burial.”

“Of course it’s a secret,” Marina says, “it’s your personal life. Do you trust me to find out what Tola and Ilyushka think without implicating you? Or do you want this to be with just mama and me?”

Marina is ever his ally and Azazel knows he’s lucky to have her. His brothers aren’t as sharp for all he has no doubt they’ll remain loyal and supportive if he tells them. He took a lot of abuse and paid a lot of dues in the military to clear the way for them and they both know. With their father’s Ukrainian family name and their mother’s ethnic Kazakh looks, things were hard for all of them in the military. It was the main reason Azazel rarely saw promotion within the army or special forces.

“Mission granted.” 

She laughs quietly over the phone. “Thank you, officer. But don’t think you get away with not telling me all about him. His name, where he’s from, if his family knows about you. I want it all.”

“We’ll talk in Almaty,” Azazel replies. “Until then, give me the details so I can plan the trip.”

“I’ll send you an email to save you time writing things down,” Marina says quickly. “You make your goodbyes and hopefully you can get back to your special someone soon."

* * *

Things don’t go exactly as expected when he wakes Janos up with the news. In true Janos fashion, he says very little but he _does_ manage to bring his arms around Azazel’s neck and hug him awkwardly. It’s far more of a loving gesture than Azazel had thought Janos could make in this context.

At first Azazel tries to disengage from the embrace, he has very little time after all, but Janos resists being thrown off and Azazel finally admits to himself that he’s not made of stone. He allows himself to relax, to rest his chin over the warm and solid mass of Janos’ shoulder, and take a few minutes to breathe in the scent of Janos’ hair. It isn’t his favorite shampoo or conditioner, but it’s nice. Something woodsy, something from Portland, perhaps. It blends effortlessly with the lingering scent of Janos’ cologne.

“Have you thought about extensions?” It’s ridiculous and off topic, but Azazel doesn’t want to talk about his feelings with Janos; he can save that for Marina or his mother.

Janos replies with a minute nod but says nothing and because it’s easier, more familiar to Az, Azazel pulls back and sinks his fingers into Janos’ hair in order to hold his head in place. He looks Janos in his dark eyes. Janos looks back, slightly unsteady, but sure.

“The talent scout, Isaac Heath, is there anybody else in New York we should worry about?”

Despite the hold on his head, Janos shakes it anyway. “Only Dr Heath. You shouldn’t have hurt him. He was good to me before I blackmailed him.”

Azazel doesn’t bother replying to that for all Janos probably believes his own bullshit. Good men don’t fuck their students. “When I get back we will talk about this blackmail thing. For now, you will delete everything sexual of me. Even if my face doesn’t show there could be my tattoo and there are my scars and skin color. I trust you, but I don’t trust people you filmed not to find your data. After you delete everything of me, you will send me copy of all compromising material you have as precaution.”

Janos sighs abruptly and pushes Azazel’s hands away from his head.

“Janos,” Azazel says and slips an arm around him instead. He’s still warm as a furnace from sleeping. “You have blackmailed people that are wealthy and people with money can easily buy power if they don’t already have it. I want to keep you safe and in doing that I keep me safe, too. Yes?”

This time Janos nods and crosses his arms and shifts his weight forward. “Okay, but forget that for now. Right now I will help _you_. You get dressed and I’ll call the taxi. I’ll go with you to the hotel and while you shower, I’ll pack your bags. Understand?”

Despite the solid shift in Janos’ stance, Azazel pulls him close and chuckles low in his chest. He closes his eyes and says quietly next to Janos’ ear, “Pushy even now.”

For a moment, Janos relaxes into Azazel and Az concentrates on the way that feels since it will be a while before he feels it again. Azazel listens to Janos take a deep breath and feels when he firms up and pushes out of Azazel’s embrace. “You’ve always known it.”

Azazel nods. He lets Janos go and turns away to get his jacket and shoes. “Of course.”

“And you like it,” Janos replies firmly.

Azazel wonders at the tone of Janos’ voice but doesn’t spend any time second guessing when he needs to get dressed and hunt up airline tickets.

They wait outside for the taxi, both of them looking for the fastest route to Almaty. Azazel finds the fastest route in the taxi but Janos finds a similar route on his phone. Azazel leans over just to see if it might be cheaper that way, but it ends up including an Aeroflot route so Azazel buys it on his own.

In the hotel room, he leaves Janos to the packing and goes straight in to the bathroom to shower. The shower doesn’t clear Az’s head, but Azazel doesn’t need it to be clear to know the timing on this is bad.

He’s leaving Janos abruptly after a damning confession and the most critical hurdle they’ve faced in their relationship. It looks bad. It feels bad. But Azazel is the man of his family by default since his father died, which is not unlike the space he filled when his older brother was slaughtered in Afghanistan.

Unfortunately, Azazel has a dogged lack of respect for authority except in those cases when it falls to him. Too bad none of his commanding officers ever figured that out or if they had, hadn’t act on it anyway.

When he comes out of the shower Janos already has a suit laid out for him. The bag that’s packed, however, is Janos’ fashionable duffel, not his suitcase. The duffel is unzipped so Az can see it’s been packed with a precision that Azazel usually only saw in the special forces. It’s not lost on him that Janos has packed the bag with only the most essential of items.

“I’ll take your suitcase home with me,” Janos explains.

The logic is instantly accessible; a check-in bag will only slow him down. He shakes his head ruefully and pulls Janos in to kiss his forehead and then his lips. “Perfect.”

Janos smiles but there’s nothing in it to suggest he’s at ease. Not much is going to make that better, either, except a swift return and Azazel has left his return flight open.

“You’ll have to leave your knives,” Janos says, and the realization that Janos is right hits Az with a bolt of unease. “I can mail them to you by EMS. If EMS delivers to Kazakhstan.”

Azazel stands still, hair dripping on his shoulders, towel knotted at his waist, and the objects in question behind him in the bathroom. He glances at the packed bag, then the suit Janos has laid out, and clenches his teeth. Is it really worth the twenty or thirty minutes he’d save?

“EMS,” Janos repeats. “The moment the post office opens I will be there.”

“Blayhd,” Azazel says, but nods. He hates being without his knives but he hates even more the idea of leaving them with Janos. He feels a tingle in his fingers and wrist whenever he thinks about Janos and his knives these days. _A slit throat, an unusual relationship, and an exquisitely handsome man._

“Good,” Janos says and drops down to his knees. He tugs the towel away from Azazel’s hips and leans forward.

Nowhere even remotely close to being in the mood for a blow job, Azazel drops his hand on Janos’ head to push him away. But hesitates when Janos’ mouth hits above and to the left, landing on the inside of Azazel’s left hip bone. It’s been a while, but he realizes what Janos is doing. It’s his habit to suck dark purple blemishes into Azazel’s skin on each hip before Azazel goes away. The only times he’s failed to do so was when Azazel broke up with him and the first time he left after they made up.

Once he’s finished the left hip, he moves across to the right. The first one was simply painful with the shock of it, but the second is much more sensual to Az. Despite the situation, his body responds, his cock lifts a bit, and he threads his rough fingers through Janos’ hair instead of holding him, ready to push back.

But then it ends and Janos stands without giving his prick any undue attention. Azazel is free to get dressed while Janos goes into the bathroom presumably to collect Azazel’s clothes and knives.

In the elevator Azazel keeps an arm around Janos’s waist. In the cab, even though it’s fucking New York City, Azazel distracts Janos, and himself, by pulling him into the cab mirror’s blind spot and making out with him. At least it’s only just 4am, but even if it were 4pm he knows he would probably do the same in this situation, despite the risks.

It doesn’t take long to get Janos warmed up and for Azazel to move from Janos’ mouth down to Janos’ throat. Janos tastes good, his skin is so smooth under Azazel’s tongue. And even though Janos hates it when Azazel leaves him with a mark, he doesn’t say a thing when Azazel sinks his teeth in and then sucks a mark into sight low enough to be covered by a turtle neck, but high enough that anything else will fail to hide it. Janos’ throat vibrates softly with quiet moans as Azazel continues to mouth and nuzzle at the sensitive skin.

At the airport the taxi driver gives Azazel an angry look and takes the money he’s given without a word. Azazel smiles at this and makes a point of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Keep the change.”

While Azazel waits to check-in, Janos is distracted by a furious exchange of text messages and then a heated phone call which he walks away to conduct.  After check-in is finished, Azazel finds Janos off his phone and waiting patiently for him with two cups of coffee. Whatever the phone call was about, Janos doesn’t seem affected by it now.

Azazel takes the cup he’s offered and they head to security together so Az can begin his way over to international departures. There’s still a little time so they stand next to a wall, near a bank of trash and recycling receptacles, and drink their coffee quietly. Then Azazel begins to think out loud.

“After the funeral, I will stay in Almaty for a day or two, and talk to my mother about your visit,” Azazel says. “I told my sister, Marina, about you while you slept.”

Janos’ eyes widen and then narrow quickly. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“She thought you play professional football,” Azazel says, because telling Janos he’s handsome doesn’t move him, especially when it comes from a woman. “She wants to know about you.”

Janos’ expression grows dark. He drinks his coffee and says nothing. Azazel can guess why. In the past Janos has always hated it when people talk about him. It’s one of those absurd boundaries of his that Raven and Sean complained to Az about back before things went sour in the relationship.

“My mother will want to know about you, too.”

Janos takes the unfinished cup of coffee from his mouth and drops it directly into the recycling bin. His expression remains dark as he reaches into his back pocket. He fishes out a passport, no, he produces _two_ red EU passports with Spain’s coat of arms stamped in gold. He looks inside one and then hands the other to Azazel.

“You’ll need this for the visa,” he says. “But it expires in a few months so you will need to wait for me to renew it.”

“Then why are you showing this now?” Azazel then switches to Spanish. “And why do you have two?”

When Janos doesn’t reply, Azazel opens the passport and quickly finds at least one answer to a question he never asked along with a plethora of new questions. The passport photo is from four years ago, a year before they met. Janos looks painfully young, but the name within the passport is not Janos Quested. The passport is for Janos Cecilio Ramos Arbo.

He stares at the information for a moment and then flips through the pages to see if it’s stamped. He sees entry and exit stamps all throughout, including the most recent trip to Paris. What is missing is an American student visa or any other visa that would allow him to stay in America as long as he has.

This is the passport Janos travels on, so the other one is different, possibly fake and likely containing the student visa that Janos has overstayed.

“I should have suspected,” Azazel says in Spanish. “Only two names and neither are Spanish or Mexican.”

“Janos is a Hungarian name,” Janos says, “my father’s mother moved to Mexico from Hungary.”

“I see.” Azazel flips back through the pages to the photo, never revealing his surprise at the mention of Janos father’s family. It’s hard to get over just how young he looks. “Janos Cecilio Ramos Arbo. Your name rhymes.”

“More tongue on the C,” Janos says flatly, possibly unimpressed with Azazel’s response to his real name. “If you’re going to say my name, do it correctly.”

Azazel snorts lightly and closes the passport and gives it back to Janos. He repeats Janos’ full name once more under his breath and Janos sighs and moves to face him.

“Look at my mouth,” Janos says, and places his hands on Azazel’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the bruises he left earlier. It hurts, but Azazel likes the pain. “Janos. Cecilio. Ramos. Arbo.”

“Fuck,” Azazel replies, because until Janos said it, he didn’t really pick up on the O in each name. Janos’ tongue appears as he lisps the Cs but then there’s the enticing round shape his lips make a total of four times. Spanish can be pornography in Janos’ mouth when he wills it but also when Azazel is simply inclined to objectify Janos’ mouth.

“Repeat,” Janos says, with a harder edge than ever he uses with his conversation clients. He presses in with his thumbs spreading pain over the juts of Azazel’s hips bones, but it’s more reward than punishment. Unless he gets hard in the fucking airport.

“Janos Cecilio Ramos Arbo,” Azazel says and drops the hand not holding his coffee to one of Janos’ hands and pulls it off his hip. “You are maddening but I want very much to stay here or bring you with me.”

There’s an incremental lift at one corner of Janos’ mouth, it isn’t much but it’s something. Janos turns his hand over in Azazel’s and Azazel curls his fingers down at the same times Janos curls his up. Their grip is tight. Warm.

“It’s okay. I want you to come back quickly, but if you take your time, I’ll understand. Your family is a reliable thing in your life.”

“Yes,” Azazel says and tightens his grip on Janos’ fingers, “but this is not perfect. It would be better for you, for us, if I stay after what happened yesterday and what you told me last night.”

Janos sighs and shakes his head. “Tell your sister what a good cook I am and how hard I work. Too often people think Spaniards are lazy because of unemployment and siesta, but we work very hard late into the night. Tell her the good things about me and maybe she will give you her blessing.”

“I don’t need any blessing, Yanochka.” Azazel never has and he’s not going to start looking for one now. “If my mother or sister do not approve, it is no problem of mine or yours. Westerners have this idea they have to tell everyone they’re not straight. It's not like that in Russia.”

Again Janos sighs, but this time he takes the coffee out of Azazel’s hand, takes a drink, and then throws it into the same recycling bin as the first like the ass he is. It reminds Azazel of when they first met, so he indulges the bad behavior.

“Bring me caviar.” Janos doesn’t look at him as he makes the request, he brushes his hair back from his face and then lowers his hand to the bruise on his throat. “The good kind like you did when I lived in Portland.

“I will bring you the best,” Azazel says and pulls back the collar of Janos’ shirt for a better look at his handiwork. It’s not nearly as bad as what Janos gave him, but it’s surrounded by a faint blush of whisker burn because Azazel hadn’t taken the time to shave. He releases the material and smooths it back down. “This is a good color for you, I want you to wear it more often.”

“No.” Janos drops his hand from his throat and takes out his phone to check the time. “But maybe I will wear it when you return.”

Az gestures for Janos to turn his phone around to see the time. He has to head for security. He doesn’t want to head for security. All the other times he’s left Janos for work he knew he would miss Janos, but knew that they would reunite later and subsist on Signal text, voice, or video until then. This time is different, because he doesn’t usually contact Janos when he’s in Russia. This time feels strangely intolerable and in this airport Azazel doesn’t want to even risk hugging, let alone kissing, Janos goodbye. He’s glad he had the foresight to make out with him in the taxi.

His hesitation is too long: Janos tilts his head to the side inquisitively. “Are you okay?”

Az smiles wryly, but his heart rate is weirdly elevated and he doesn’t understand that at all. It isn’t that strange affection that makes him want to punch himself in the face, it’s like a lesser version of the feeling he had when he found out Savva wasn’t coming back from Afghanistan. “I’m fine. I will see you soon, Yanochka.”

“Yes,” Janos says.

They shake hands and give each other the age old European half hug. Janos is warm and smells good. Azazel takes a deep breath of Janos’ hair and then he releases him, nods, and walks away without looking back. Azazel isn’t the superstitious sort, but he understands the old myths and legends about loved ones turning into salt or vanishing back to some underworld in that moment. He’s not superstitious, but he doesn’t want to leave with ridiculous doubts in his head.

Security is annoying as ever. Azazel finds his temper elevated for the entirety of the experience and, miraculously, he has far less trouble getting through TSA to international departures than he usually does. People in the queues give him a wide berth. Nobody asks undue questions. Azazel concentrates on getting past and then through the closed Duty Free shopping areas to his gate. It isn’t until he arrives in the seating area that he surrenders and retrieves his phone from his pocket.

He has three messages. The first is from Marina.

> Mama, Ilya, and I have just got on the plane for Almaty; Tola isn’t coming. We’re going to go straight to the hospital with our bags.  4:26am

Azazel replies that he’s waiting at the gate for his first of three flights and that he’s carrying no check-in baggage and will likely need to do some shopping after the funeral, if there is one.

The next message is from Sean. 

> Janos told me about your grandmother. I’m really sorry to hear it and I hope you’re okay. Look, Janos gave me a sort of ultimatum about something he wants me to tell you. It’s going to make you mad, so maybe message me or call me in a few days when you feel better? Take it easy until then.4:30am

Azazel dials Sean immediately and looks around for a secluded place to talk. Better to just get this over with before his grandmother dies and he feels worse. He already wants to punch somebody, anybody, in the face. If he was at work he could probably take it out on one of his employees, but not in public, not when he has somewhere to be.

Sean picks up on the fourth ring. He sounds sleepy but his voice cracks strangely. “Fucking fuck, Az, are you kidding me? It’s 2am here and you’re probably in an emotionally bad place over there.”

“Yes,” Azazel says and walks into the handicapped bathroom and shuts the door behind him. “It is late and I am in an emotionally bad place, but I’ve been very patient with you. Not anymore. Tell me what this problem is.”

There’s a long silence from Sean’s end of the line, punctuated with random noises that indicate moving around. Finally, Sean starts talking. “Um, so, Janos was here on a student visa but then he wasn’t a student. He needed a visa so, um, I helped him get an alternate one. I mean, at first Raven was going to do it, but she had this idea about Hank…”

There’s a crack as the flat of Azazel’s hand connects with the wall’s tiles, his voice rises in volume. “ _Explain_.”

“Just, fuck, you have to understand I only did it because Raven couldn’t.” Sean’s voice cracks again. “I’m straight, okay?”

“I understand,” and now Azazel’s voice veers to dead calm, which is usually more intimidating after an outburst of temper. Has Sean had an affair with Janos? Should he care? He’s ready to believe anything of Janos after his confession. “Talk.”

He hears Sean take a shaky breath. “Janos is in the States on a fiancé visa. Uh, legally he’s my fiancé.”

Azazel sees red. The hand dryer takes it hard when Azazel’s fist collides with it, but he retains his wits. “Sean. Did you and Janos fuck while he was with me?”

“Never! No way!” Sean’s voice cracks again, but this time in anger. “I told you, I’m straight! I love Janos, but he’s my friend. He’s probably slept with people straighter than me, but he’s more like family. I can’t even imagine kissing him and the idea of touching his dick is just, ugh, no. So don’t come after me, you violently jealous asshole!”

Azazel breathes in through his nose and shakes out his fist. This isn’t Sean’s fault, not even a little bit of it. The fault is entirely on Az. “I was unreasonable last year and I would have been furious then, but wrong. What you did was a favor for your friend and I owe you gratitude for that. If you had not gotten Janos visa, I would not have met him.”

There’s another long silence before Sean speaks up again. “Who are you and how did you get my number? Is this the Azazel I saw just last week? The one that slapped a bitch for literally laying a finger on Janos on his one-year anniversary? The Azazel that, six months later, put a man in the hospital because Janos drunk-flirted with the poor bastard for funsies?”

“He had his hand on Janos’ ass,” Az says reflexively. “Lucky man to wake up in hospital instead of morgue.”

“The guy that hates Raven’s brother because Charles had the audacity,” Sean continues, “to offer Janos first aid the other week?”

“Last year, Xavier came out of Raven’s room in his underwear with a stiff dick,” Azazel says, and hates himself just a bit because he knows he’s being baited but he can’t stop himself. “He did not know I was there. But Janos? He knew Janos was there. Then he fought with Erik at Raven’s show because he can’t handle reminder his sister was born with split lip.”

“Yeah,” Sean says in a tone that starts off sarcastic, “this is definitely the Azazel I know. I guess Raven and Janos are right, you’re still a scary, murderous asshole, but you’re not the 2D villain you used to be.”

Despite himself, Azazel pulls up short there in the bathroom. Despite Sean’s fear, Sean has played him. He laughs. “I have to catch my plane, but understand this: I am very grateful to you and Raven for helping Janos. I show Janos my appreciation with expensive gifts, but you I offer brotherhood.”

“Fuck,” Sean says. He takes a deep breath and exhales over the phone. “Sometimes I think I have a death wish. I’m so glad you laughed. But, yeah, okay, I can take that. Just one thing and then you can go. At Raven’s place I told you Janos’ emotional health wasn’t great but, if you’re like Erik, I think I should’ve also said that you probably need to remember yours, too. Anyway, safe journey, Az.”

Brave and maybe even wise is Sean, Azazel thinks and then stows his phone back in a pocket. He adjusts the strap of Janos’ carry-on and flicks his hands to hike the sleeves of his suit jacket and the shirt beneath. It feels strange to make the motion and not feel his knives. He washes his hands and tries the hand dryer. Fortunately, it still works, even if it sounds like something inside has rattled loose.

Outside at his gate the plane is almost finished with boarding but since he’s going business class, it isn’t a big deal when he enters as long as it’s before the doors shut. Economy is a pain in the ass with his height, but at least it isn’t a military or Aeroflot plane. He takes his seat and opens the carry-on to see if Janos packed any of his books. He finds three of his murder mysteries but not the play by Garcia Lorca. He also finds that Janos has packed a small, but completely unnecessary, bag of toiletries. There are three small plastic bottles labeled with tape and Janos’ Spanish handwriting. Hand cream. Shampoo. Conditioner. It’s a mystery. Azazel hardly ever uses conditioner and he could easily buy any of these things in Almaty. The hand lotion, though, is probably the expensive French stuff Janos keeps around for massaging Azazel’s hands.

He replaces the toiletries and sits down with the books and makes himself comfortable. Then, at long last, he takes out his phone and checks the message from Janos. There are two now.

> If Sean doesn’t tell you, I will.  4:39am

> Don’t throw away anything I packed.  4:57am

Curiosity piqued, Azazel gets up once more and pulls the bag down from the overhead compartment, pulls the small toiletries bag out, and stows the carry-on again. As the plane pulls out away from the airlock, Az opens the lotion. Scentless, just as expected. The shampoo bottle he opens as the plane taxis along the runway. The scent is immediately recognizable: it’s one of the shampoos Janos uses that Azazel likes. The last bottle, the conditioner, Azazel saves for the moment the front of the airplane lifts up. The conditioner, in combination with the shampoo, is the scent Azazel has been associating with Janos from the beginning of their relationship.

The bastard. Azazel misses Janos already, but he refuses to look out the window at the airport or the city, he refuses to read back through their messages like he’s prone to do when they’re apart. And he refuses to lift his bruised fist and punch himself in the face for the way his chest aches. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _American fiancé visas are only good for six months, not the weird indefinite thing I seem to have written here._


	18. Butterfly effect (Part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure there will be no new chapter next week... I never wanted this to become bi-weekly but I guess this is the reality. The biggest delay is probably the amount of research I've had to do to bring this one together. (Or my growing inability to focus.) As for the burial and funeral customs that are brought up in this chapter: just like in any other major religion, there's more than one way to do an Islamic burial and I'm nowhere near an expert.
> 
> Note: Karlygash is mentioned by a few pet names as there is no diminutive found in Russian. Ptichka and Karinka are both pet names.
> 
> Warnings: Homophobia, some misogyny, toxic masculinity, and some gross sexual talk. (It's all central to one character that you won't really meet until the end of the chapter.)

Azazel’s grandmother dies while he’s in the air, but after sunset which means he has time despite a delay at Istanbul International Airport. Time enough to shave in a bathroom with a disposable razor, to pick up some duty-free gifts for family, and to use the free wifi. He has messages from several people, including Janos, but he only checks and responds to Marina’s. For all he would like to read what Janos has to say, it already feels like he’s thinking too much about Janos when it’s his mother and sister he should be focused on. Though, not one to lie to himself, Azazel supposes it’s more a matter of never doing well with split loyalties. For the last forty years his priority was generally his family with a long and very dysfunctional relationship with patriotism that had ended at a hospital after the grenade at the Dubrovka Theatre in Moscow.

The are several hours in which to think it over on the next leg of the trip to Almaty International Airport, but Azazel dismantles his Canadian phone and reads one of his detective novels instead.

The plane arrives an hour behind schedule but, thanks to Janos’ foresight concerning baggage, Azazel walks straight through the expansive airport, past baggage claim, and has minimal fuss moving through immigration with the use of Kazakh and his Russian passport. Outside in the light and shadow of passing clouds, Azazel finds a taxi driver that knows the mosque and associated cemetery his family use and they head off, initially for the mosque.

When traffic proves heavy the driver suggests going to the cemetery instead since they’re likely to miss a funeral that’s probably already started. Azazel concedes the logic; better to make all of the burial then none of the funeral and most of the burial.

As Marina had predicted, he misses the funeral but makes the burial. Azazel over-pays the driver with American cash and jogs over to the cemetery gates where it seems all the women are waiting. Apparently his grandmother had a more conservative burial than expected. He drops Janos’ bag on the ground outside the gate with brief greetings to his aunts, mother, and Marina and passes through the gate. He has no belief in God, but Azazel doesn’t let that stop him from paying his respects.

He’s arrived after his grandmother’s body has been lowered into the ground, but in time to join the other men in casting three handfuls of soil over the white shroud. After the burial ceremony is complete, Azazel greets his youngest brother, Ilya, and together they join their mother and sister outside the cemetery.

Their mother is relatively dry-eyed until Azazel encloses her in his arms, then she begins to cry. Marina and Ilya mock her laughingly for saving up all her waterworks for Az. Azazel doesn’t pretend to understand why it’s him she cries on when she’s under stress but it reminds him of Janos and he doesn’t want that reminder. Possibly she cries because he’s the one she always expects to bury. It relaxes him for some reason but does nothing for his nicotine deprivation headache.

After Az greets his aunts and cousins in turn, they go back to his uncle’s home for tea and to greet well-wishers. There’s plenty of food and more comes in with every set of visitors. Normally this sort of thing doesn’t wear on Az, but this time he spends most of the time brooding.

He doesn’t think as much about his grandmother as much as he should, instead he thinks about whether or not Janos would like the fermented milk drinks, the strong tea, or how everyone in the Nurgaliyev family is united in sharp black clothing.

His silence doesn’t go unnoticed and after a few cups of tea have done their work, he finds Marina waiting for him outside the bathroom. Without ceremony, she pulls him outside in the late afternoon street where shadows are long and a couple of neighborhood cats are rolling in the dust beside a row of night-blooming jasmine bushes. The street is quiet as can be expected for being off the main thoroughfare and on the outer edge of the inner city. It’s noisier than Omsk, quieter than New York, on par with Portland.

Marina might have pulled him outside but Azazel leads the way once they’re on the street. He walks along the road straight for the corner shop to buy a lighter. As he goes he takes out his cigarette case and offers it to Marina. “Marlboro.”

She sighs and takes the case. “Mama is talking about moving back here. What do you think?”

“Better than Omsk,” he says. The kiosk has nothing but cheap, kitschy lighters and plain plastic ones, but Azazel has no Kazakhstani cash. He takes a black lighter and glances at Marina. “I didn’t change money.”

Marina rolls her eyes and opens Azazel’s cigarette case and pulls out seven cigarettes. She places five on the counter. “Marlboro, fresh from America.”

The middle-aged woman behind the counter picks one of the cigarettes up, looks at the Marlboro label and then at the two of them. She uses Russian when she replies to Marina. “You’re here for Mrs. Nurgaliyev, aren’t you? Take the lighter.”

“Spasibo,” Azazel replies and reaches across the counter to light the one cigarette the woman has kept. He lights his and takes a deep and grounding breath. He’s been without nicotine beyond airport-bought gum for close to twenty-four hours.

When he turns to Marina to light hers, she’s replaced the other four back in the case. “That must be the best cigarette in months.”

“Always is after a long flight,” he admits.

Marina leans forward and he lights her cigarette, too. She doesn’t smoke much having never managed to form a habit like all of her brothers had. Cigarette lit, she leans back but Azazel sees her eyes focus on his left hand as she moves away. She doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t need to: it’s the hand he used to punch the dryer back in New York. Everyone in his family knows Azazel likes to fight, they’re just happy he never became a criminal.

They walk back across the street and down to the playground where the jasmine bushes and cats are.

“Mama has no opinion really about homosexuals,” Marina says, the words push through a mouthful of smoke. “Ilyushka thinks they’re degenerates and should be forcibly educated or deported.”

Azazel chuckles at that. Ilya is both youngest and shortest and always feels he has something to prove. Unlike Azazel, Ilya tends to let his temper lead him into fights he’d be better off not starting. Az considers including Ilya in this just to watch him struggle. “Karlygash?”

“Your Ptichka thinks it all sounds very gross.” Marina chuckles herself and glances aside to Azazel. “But you know how she is: Dyad’ Az can do no wrong. Knowing her she’ll be delighted that she likes boys just like her dyadya.”

This definitely sounds like his niece. “Did she delete her photos from VKontakte?”

Marina takes another drag on her cigarette and blows the smoke in front of them so they have to walk through it. “No, there are some things even the word of God cannot influence. But she did remove all but a few of her older ones. Her Instagram, though, is another thing entirely.”

“She’s a teenager,” Azazel says, “and one of your kids. She’ll do as she likes.”

“True. I’m more worried about her obsession with illegal memes of Putin.”

They loiter near the playground for a bit and then Marina ventures inside to sit on one of the swing sets. It’s an old park, much like the neighborhood, but it’s been kept clean and in good order by volunteers from their late grandmother’s local mosque. Azazel remembers spraining his ankle and bloodying his nose here when he’d jumped from the swing at the top of its highest arc. It had felt more like flying than jumping from a plane had.

He wonders if Janos would like to try skydiving. Probably he would throw himself from the plane with glee and laugh as he fell.

“What’s his name?”

Azazel breathes in a burning breath of smoke and blows it from his nose. “Janos.”

“Tell me about him.”

Azazel refocuses from the cloud of smoke he exhaled and over to Marina. Even now she’s smiling. Sitting down she doesn’t look like she’s almost the same height as he is. When she wears her tallest heels, she takes delight in being taller. She has hair as black as his, skin the same shade, but her features are more strongly Asian like their mother while his are more like their father.

It takes another drag on his cigarette for Azazel to answer Marina’s question. “We met in the American Pacific Northwest but he’s from Spain. He was a sports model for Nike, but now he has been getting work for Balmain and the American brand, Joseph Abboud.”

Marina nods and then laughs. “Thank God it was Nike and not Adidas!”

Azazel can’t help but laugh at that. “All the gopniks would know him, eh? No hiding him in Omsk, then.”

“Yes!” Marina stretches her legs out and the swing lifts her back. She holds a chain with one hand and her cigarette with the other. “Give me your SD card so I can look at him.”

Azazel shakes his head. “Just do a search on his name. I’ll spell it for you.”

Marina laughs and takes her phone from her purse and tosses it to him. “I’m using Tola’s birthday for the password this week.”

It takes just a moment to unlock and then enter Janos’ alias into a search. He feels himself frown as images of Janos begin to show up on the browser. His chest feels weird and it takes willpower to toss the phone back instead of scrolling through.

Marina catches the phone and bends her head to search through the images. She scrolls along and smokes quietly.

Azazel wonders what Janos is doing. He never sent a reply to Janos, let alone an address for his knives to be sent to. Perhaps he’s home, asleep, and will wake up soon to the second day of wearing a turtleneck or a scarf. What if Janos did neither? Would he show the mark off if he wasn’t a model? Probably.

“You’ve never been like this before,” Marina says.

He looks over, but her head is still bent, her finger on the phone’s screen. “Like what?”

“Smitten.”

No words come to Azazel for a reply. Marina’s probably right. She often is when it comes to him.

“You’ve only ever brought home the local girls,” she continues, “and Valentina was the only one I ever liked. She’s got kids now, by the way. I heard from one of her cousins that’s still in town.”

Azazel finishes his cigarette and goes straight for another. “I want to bring him to Omsk in August.”

Marina looks up from her phone and makes a disgusted face. “To Omsk? Are you kidding? Omsk is a dump and with the economic sanctions it’s only going to get worse. You hardly ever visit in spring, so maybe you’ve forgotten how the streets turn into muddy rivers when the snow melts? Or how people die each winter drinking household cleaners because they can’t afford cheap vodka? The only good things about Omsk have left already, including you.”

“Almaty would be better,” Azazel says without missing a beat, “but your husband won’t leave Omsk. Tola and Ilyusha can be convinced, but you’re not leaving so long as Kirya has a job at the school.”

“So you think mama should move?” Marina locks the phone screen and puts the phone back in her purse. She doesn’t argue, won’t argue, because she knows she’s lost.

“You already know what I think.” Azazel looks back over his shoulder at the apartment building where people wearing black occasionally come and go. “I will always go back for you. If Janos doesn’t like Omsk, and he won’t, it doesn’t matter. It’s easier to bring him there than to bring all of you to New York.”

Marina watches the dust rise and fall around her feet and over her black shoes as she stamps them on the ground. “I see. You know, Az, I know you love us, but now I think you love this person, too. You want us all to be in one place, even if it is just once, even if Tola and Ilyushka never know he’s special.”

The next drag Azazel takes off his cigarette burns it down further than any of the others and he has to look away again. Fucking Marina is too smart and knows him too well. What can he possibly say?

“They say silence speaks louder than words,” Marina says. “Are you going to stay in America? Because you can’t be with him in Omsk or Petersburg.”

“I can’t be with him in New York, either.”

“Too many people know you in Moscow, too,” Marina continues. “Almaty is much safer. He could maybe get work here if he learns Russian or Kazakh, but he wouldn’t do so well even then.”

Azazel shakes his head. “No, it would take too long to learn Russian. He’s always busy, I don’t know how he would find the time to study with the way his life is now. He needs more sleep as it is.”

“Oh, yes, it’s real,” Marina says and stands from the swing. She dashes the cigarette out on the swing set’s metal structure and then hands the butt to Azazel to throw away because she thinks she can get away with it. “You’ve been thinking about this. Planning. You want to find a way to be with him all the time.”

“I can’t ask him to move, though,” Azazel replies though it would be better to talk about Janos and his problems than about how in over his head Az is.

Marina stops and turns to him. “Why is this so complicated? Doesn’t he know how bad it would be if people in your line of work found out? Especially some of the people in the shipping business that we should not mention?”

Azazel pauses to think and to crush the ash and remaining tobacco from Marina’s cigarette butt out onto the ground. “It’s foolishness. I broke things off with him once, but I couldn’t let go.”

“Is it his looks? The sex?” Azazel can see Marina is genuinely curious. But then, she isn’t the type to humor him. “He can’t be that interesting, can he?”

“He’s demanding, vain, and arrogant. His boundaries are unreasonable,” Azazel says, and knows Janos would be angry at him for talking about him like this. He’s supposed to be telling Marina what a good cook and hard worker he is, after all. “Sometimes the only way to get through to him is alcohol. And yet I know very few people that have such strength of will or perseverance. When I challenge him he fights me, but he also rises to those challenges and challenges me back.”

“He engages you.” Marina hasn’t resumed walking back to the building. She leans against him and patronisingly pats his back. “And maybe you’re just such a tough guy that a woman is too soft.”

It sounds so ridiculous Azazel pushes his sister away with a snort of laughter. “I have no preference. Maybe all humanity starts out with no preference for man or woman but tradition and society teaches us otherwise.”

Marina laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t know if you’re serious or making a joke! You need to come over and have drinks with Kiryushka and me. God knows Mr. Philosophy Professor would love to talk about that. Though Karlygash and the boys might all die of embarrassment.”

There’s no way in hell Azazel has any intention of having that conversation, but he just shrugs and brings his cigarette to his mouth. He takes a drag and then squeezes the filter between his lips to free both of his hands. He then pulls back the neck of Marina’s dress and drops her cigarette butt down the back.

She turns on him, her mouth open and her nose wrinkled in outrage. He leans back to avoid her first swing, then ducks when she leads with the next fist. Just to make her even more irritated, he stays in a crouch and catches her ankle when she kicks.

“These are nice shoes,” Azazel says around the cigarette, “why did you get them so dusty?”

Her purse nearly clocks him in the side of the head, but that’s why he left the cigarette in his mouth. He grabs the purse before it strikes and pulls just enough to threaten her balance.

“Fuck off, you asshole!”

Az smirks up at her. “Do my niece and nephews hear you use such language?”

And then, from across the street, they hear one of their aunts. “Azat! Be an adult and stop teasing Marinka!”

Az lets go but brings up his arms when Marina tries to hit him with her purse again. They return to the apartment laughing, both in a better mood, each with an arm around the other.

* * *

The mourning period lasts three days and their mother intends to stay in Almaty the whole time. Az offers to get them a hotel room, the rates are far less than those in New York so it wouldn’t be a strain. But their mother declines because she’s missed her brother and sisters. In the end Azazel finds himself sleeping on the floor in the living room, sharing a flask of kirsch with Ilya. Their late grandmother would beat them for having alcohol at all, let alone during a mourning period in her home. She’d gotten quite pious in her old age.

An opportunity to talk to his mother about Janos probably won’t present itself in Almaty. Azazel resigns himself to returning to Omsk with her where he can talk without the pressures of family and time. He’d hoped to get back to Janos sooner, but perhaps it will be more like a week instead of a few days.

The lights in the living room are out except for Ilya’s phone: he’s messaging his wife. The alcohol loosens Az up the extra little bit needed to follow his youngest brother’s example and get his personal phone out, reassemble it, and power it on. He has no excuse not to when his uncle’s wifi is right there. And after taking a shower and seeing the dark bruises on his hipbones, it’s been weighing more and more heavily on his mind.

There are a slew of messages for him when his messaging apps load up. Some from Raven and Erik with their condolences and several from Janos. Az grits his teeth before opening Janos’ messages. It’s been thirty hours since he left New York and he could have messaged Janos at any of the airports he’d been through or even here in his uncle’s flat. He’s been an ass when timing is bad enough.

The messages are more or less what he expected: a wish for an uneventful trip, a request for an address to send the knives to Almaty since EMS does deliver, a request for a message when possible, a confirmation that he will compile the information Az had asked for and send it within the week. A message from little more than an hour ago asking if Azazel’s family are well.

It’s the last message, one that Azazel thinks must have been torture for Janos to write, that shames him into a response. It’s childish not to have done so before now, he thinks, and not normal. But then, family is a topic Janos doesn’t like to wander near.

_Trip was uneventful. Family is fine. Will send the Omsk address since I will stay longer than expected._

Azazel takes out his Russian phone and messages both his partners in Petersburg about his family situation. The three of them are close, served in special forces together, and share the same skull and knife tattoo. While Az has no obligation to tell them about Janos, it would be strange not to tell them his grandmother had died.

That done, he checks his personal phone again and finds Janos has replied and is still online. _Were you in time for the funeral?_

 _No. Arrived at cemetery halfway through burial._ Azazel thinks a moment and then adds: _My little brother and I are sleeping on the floor at my uncle’s flat._

While he waits for a reply, Azazel reaches over to Ilya and takes the flask of kirsch. Ilya doesn’t even notice, he’s fixated on his phone with a scowl on his face. Possibly he’s feuding with his wife, more likely they’re discussing what to do with their eldest son and his prolonged unemployment and delinquency.

Ah, family. This is probably the part Janos wants no exposure to. Azazel turns back to his phone and reads Janos’ next reply.

_Is it cold? Do you want something to warm you up?_

It’s a struggle not to sit up a little straighter, so Azazel converts the impulse into lifting the kirsch and taking a drink. He places the bottle back by his brother and thinks about the offer. That is what it is, after all. He doesn’t really need anything, the kirsch has him warm enough, but just seeing Janos’ face would be good so he replies in the affirmative.

It takes about five minutes to get the selfie and Az knows from experience that most of that time is Janos taking and retaking the shot until he’s satisfied with it. What Azazel gets is a gym bathroom selfie of Janos at a mirror. His shirt is off, sweat or water stands up on his skin and weighs down the ends of his hair, his chin is lifted up, and head tilted to the side so he’s looking into the camera from an angle. Central to the photo is the bruise on his throat which has spread and grown darker with age.

The caption reads: _Here is mine. Show me yours._

It takes effort not to react, but his brother is right next to him so Azazel isn’t going to give himself away if he can help it. But the photo has the desired affect: Azazel feels much _much_ warmer. If this wasn’t his uncle’s home and if this wasn’t the day of his grandmother’s funeral, he’d be up for sexting with Janos.

But then he remembers Janos’ experience with blackmail and even if he has no fear of the same happening to himself, the idea of sending Janos a dick pic has lost its appeal for now. It isn’t like he ever did much of that in the past but it will take time before he goes in for it again.

_Not tonight. Though your picture will keep me warm all night, my brother won’t appreciate if this goes further._

And that’s the other thing. Azazel has spent the last couple months sleeping next to Janos, the last thing he wants to do is forget it’s his brother next to him. Though the idea strikes him as hilarious, if he ever actually does tell Ilya about Janos, best it doesn’t start with an incest scare. But then maybe he has more to fear from Ilya who sleeps with his wife all the time.

Janos replies, _Is your brother good looking?_

Azazel answers with honesty and a bit of cheek: _Better than me._

_Sounds promising._

Azazel shakes his head. Trust Janos to have the same dubious sense of humor as him. _I will probably be back in New York next week. I will email you the itinerary when I get to Russia._

It takes longer for Janos to reply this time, maybe a few minutes. _Okay. I have to take a shower and get dressed. Remember to tell your sister good things. Nike and suiting photos only._

“Pisdets,” Azazel says under his breath because he’s already done mostly the opposite of that. He’s not even sure what images of Janos come up in an image search. Hopefully not the Triple Cha catalogue, that would send the wrong message. Even Janos’ infamous  _Desnudo_ photoshoot would be better. Azazel keeps the  _Desnudo_  outtakes very close to his heart.

_You leave me with the knowledge you will be naked soon? Cruel and merciless._

Janos is quick to reply: _Those are not the least of my virtues. Good night,_ _cabrón_.

Azazel sighs and types back. _Good night. It may be another 24 hours before I message you again._

The messages is read, but Janos doesn’t reply. Likely because he’s getting undressed and getting into one of the gym’s showers. What he’d give to fuck Janos in one of those, preferably making enough noise that there’d be no doubt what was going on inside.

Azazel powers down his phone and drops it in his lap. He swears again under his breath and falls backward onto one of the couch’s throw pillows and tries not to think about Janos and the shower. It’s difficult not to when he knows Janos’ shower routine so well. Is it a private stall? An open shower room? Are there other men there admiring his calves and thighs, that well-muscled ass of his? Even straight men would be tempted, Azazel thinks. And that thought reminds him.

Azazel sits back up to pick up his phone to tell Janos that Sean told him his secret but finds Ilya twisted to the side, staring at him with one squinting eye.

“Since when do you,” Ilya says, giving him a slightly disgusted look, “sigh and flop on your back like a little girl? Too long in America?”

Laughter threatens to come out of Azazel’s mouth, but he only smirks evilly at Ilya instead. He holds up his two fists to Ilya’s face. “One of these is bruised and skinned, the other is not. I think your face is interested in helping me make a matching set.”

“Hah,” Ilya replies and attempts to push Az’s fists away. Azazel doesn’t give him the satisfaction. “You make a commotion and our aunts are going to come out here and kick your ass.”

“They’ll come beat you with their slippers,” Azazel says, “because your whining is fucking shrill.”

But Ilya isn’t deterred for all the comment clearly makes his nostrils flare and his fists clench. He’s obviously had too much of the kirsch. “I think you’ve found some American pisda. She must be desperate to want an old guy like you.”

“You’re only mad that even five years younger you passed your prime before I did.” For all pissing Ilya off can be fun, Azazel decides to back off; there’s no need to wake everyone up with a scuffle if they’re going to find the two of them with alcohol on their breath. “But you caught me, Ilyusha. I’m up to my wrists in American pisda and I miss it madly.”

The comment brings Ilya’s shoulders back down, if slowly. “Okay, maybe I had that coming. But you need to settle down and have some kids before your balls shrivel up or get shot off. You know, Karlygash’s little friend, Ilyana Nikolyevna, has been asking about you.”

“Too young and too much like family,” Azazel says and lies back again. The trick with Ilya is to pretend to take his taunts seriously instead of taking the bait. “That witchy girl is only interested in my nickname.”

“And your reputation,” Ilya says and caps the kirsch and puts down his phone. “She’s always asking how many people you’ve killed. It pisses Karinka off. Maybe she asks about you because she knows it makes our girl jealous.”

“My Ptichka can handle herself,” Azazel replies. For a fifteen-year old, Karlygash is remarkably self-assured. Probably because she has the sort of self-confidence that comes from a family that believes in her and an uncle that started teaching her how to immobilize and humiliate an opponent from when she was five years old.

Ilya tries provoke Azazel a few more times to trick him into a conversation, but Az just takes a page out of Janos’ playbook and doesn’t reply. He crosses his arms behind his head and closes his eyes and thinks about what Marina said about Karlygash. He’s not worried about Karlygash liking Janos; she will accept him by virtue of Azazel’s appreciation even though the two of them have very little in common. It would be even better if Janos were to like his niece. Definitely he’s not going to like Omsk. Definitely not Ilya, perhaps not Tolegan, their mother, or even Marina, but probably the chances of him liking Karlygash are good.

Azazel falls asleep thinking about Janos and has a good laugh when he wakes up in the morning to find Ilya pushed against the wall, Azazel’s foot square in the middle of Ilya’s back. Ilya is such a deep sleeper that he continues to snore even after Azazel gets up and starts the morning coffee.


	19. Butterfly effect (Part three)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karlygash trolls her uncles. Azazel tells his mother about Janos. Janos drops a bomb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: talk about the blackmail material, Janos appearing to absolve somebody he shouldn't, Az's graphic fantasy of (experience with) cutting throats.
> 
> Also, hah, so many mistakes last chapter with diminutives. Send help.

The best thing about Omsk international airport is the same best thing about PDX and JFK: being met on arrival. Azazel sees Marina’s husband first as he’s a tall, thin bastard given to brightly-coloured ties and shabby coats. Then it’s Karlygash in the black and grey fleece hat with the cat ears he bought her in South Korea. She’s bouncing up on her toes in what can only be excitement. When she sees him, her tan face splits in a grin, her dark eyes widen, and the bouncing intensifies. The bouquet in her hands takes a beating.

For Karlygash’s sake, Azazel hangs back a bit when they come through the gate, so she’s compelled to do things the right way. She hugs her grandmother and gives her the flowers and follows by hugging and kissing her mother. When Azazel comes through she’s calmed down enough that she doesn’t throw herself at him like she did when she was younger and smaller. She still jumps up a bit to throw her arms around his neck, but these days she reaches easily on her toes.

“Dyad’ Az,” she says with a laugh and then lifts her feet so she hangs all of her body weight from his neck.

Such a greeting isn’t unexpected. Az shifts his footing and leans back slightly to accommodate her. He’s used to Janos testing his strength, too, so it’s not difficult for him to adjust Janos’ duffle back a bit more and to put his arms around his niece and start walking again.

“You’ve gotten heavier, Ptichka,” Azazel says in a conversational tone. “You better not be using protein powder. You wait for that at least three more years.”

She rolls her eyes and kicks her feet up and down in the air. “No, but I’ve gained a couple kilos. I’ve been eating a lot of eggs like my coach said.”

“Only girl I know that’s happy to gain weight,” Kirill says as they move along the corridor toward the exits.

“Just wait,” Ilya says from behind Az, “and she’ll be worried about her ass like all the others.”

In a subtle show of strength, Karlygash pulls herself up Azazel’s body and smiles over his shoulder. Her elbows dig in but Azazel allows it. “I wouldn’t have to worry about my weight if I was as short as Dyadya Ilya.”

Ilya barks a laugh. “Fuck you, too, Karinka.”

Their mother immediately stops before the doors leading out and turns around. Azazel sighs and shakes his head; even as a grown man he keeps from using that kind of language around his mother. She might be sixty-five, but she’s every bit as spry and she holds no tolerance at all for foul language.

She stares past Azazel to Ilya with the sort of bland expression that Azazel identifies as the edge of violence. “Ilyusha, I do not tolerate that kind of language in my children and especially not in the presence of my grandchildren. You might be a man, but you’ll never be too old for me to beat you.”

Behind her Kirill looks embarrassed and Marina is covering a smile with one hand while making a rude gesture at Ilya with the other. Probably because neither Mama or Karlygash are facing her direction.

Azazel can’t see Ilya’s reaction, the sliding doors leading outside have too much light coming through from the other side to be reflective, but he hears his reply.

“Sorry, Mama, it’s a bad habit.”

“Yes, it is,” their mother agrees, her eyes narrowed in pique. “It will be better for you if I never hear that again.”

After the reprimand, they resume the trek to the car, but Azazel sets Karlygash down when they get outside. She’s gotten tall, almost up to his shoulder, and is still shooting up like prairie grass, but hasn’t developed the curves most of her friends have. According to Marina, it’s something she’s become a little self-conscious about. Hanging around Illyana Rasputina has probably not helped; she’s a sixteen-year old bombshell of iconic Russian beauty and is unapologetic in the use of her sex appeal. Illyana’s father was a co-worker of Azazel’s father so they used to see the Rasputinas fairly often. They still do to some extent, via Kirill’s work.

Kirill’s Lada Niva is big enough for all six even with the luggage, but Az almost calls a cab for his apartment. In the end, though, he knows his mother expects him to come over for a meal and to catch up. If they manage it alone it will be a good time to talk about Janos. So Azazel climbs into the back with Karlygash where his niece promptly ambushes him by grabbing a box from the floor and dumping it on his lap. It’s a white EMS box which Azazel has assumed he’d be signing for at the post office.

“Dyad’ Az,” she says, her brown eyes crinkled at the edges. “Who is J Quested and why is she sending you kitchen cutlery samples and sanitary napkins and why are they marked as personal effects?”

Azazel quirks one eyebrow up. Menstrual pads? Fucking Janos.

Marina and Ilya both burst out laughing while Karlygash just grins up at Azazel, her hands still on the box.

“Any napkins are for you, Ptichka,” Azazel replies, but the attempt at embarrassing her doesn’t work at all. Sometimes she’s far too much like him. “How did you get the box?”

Conversely, this question makes her cheeks brighten with colour that has nothing to do with the wind outside. “I was cleaning your apartment when it was delivered. I’ve been studying there, like you said I could, and I wanted to make sure it was clean for your visit.”

“No need to remind me, I trust you,” Azazel replies. He’d given her his key, after all.

Thanks to the snow thaw flooding the streets it will be another hour before they get to his mother’s apartment block. Az has been apart from his knives far too long to wait to get to their destination; he pulls the tape off the top of the box and opens the cardboard flaps.

Both knives are there as well as plenty of crushed newspaper and two unopened cartons of Marlboro Reds. His chest warms and the corners of his mouth twitch up. Ah, now that is love and affection surely, because he hadn’t been able to buy any in New York’s duty free when he left. Mailing cigarettes overseas is illegal, hence the sanitary napkins to throw customs off. Maybe Janos is craftier than he is mischievous. It would be a near thing.

“No,” Azazel says and taps a carton of cigarettes against Karlygash’s hat, flattening one of the ears, “these napkins are for me after all.”

“Share the wealth,” Ilya says when he sees the Marlboro box. For once his eyes are lit up and a smile on his dour face. “Those napkins are hard to get and I’m surely about to start my period.”

Azazel hands him the carton. “Take half of this one, the other half is Tolya’s.”

Ilya says his enthusiastic thanks and opens the carton and starts shaking out packs. As he does, Azazel turns back to the EMS box’s contents. His knives are there, but so is a folded rectangle of dark cloth within a clear plastic sleeve. At a glance it’s likely a scarf or shawl and, judging by the elaborate floral design within the weave, it’s meant for a woman. There’s no note indicating who it should be given to, but Azazel assumes it’s for his mother.

Azazel can’t imagine what a gesture like this had cost Janos. Not in terms of money, but emotion and in regard to Janos’ distaste for family situations. Janos is trying against those inclinations and that means more than mere cigarettes.

Thinking he’ll explain later, Azazel hands the wrapped rectangle to Karlygash. “Give this to your babushka, from your dyadya’s friend.”

Karlygash’s eyes widen and her eyebrows climb her brow. Her mouth opens to ask, but Azazel cuts the question off.

“Not a girl,” Azazel says and pulls her hat’s edge down over her eyes. “Everyone needs to stop marrying me off in their heads.”

She pulls her hat up and frowns seriously. “No fear, Dyad’ Az, I will keep you safe.”

The remark makes Azazel chuckle. In response, he takes the hat off her head and tosses it over the seat toward his mother. The rest of his nieces and nephews respect and fear him too much to play around and mock the way Karlygash does. It’s one of the things he loves her for.

With Karlygash distracted with getting her hat and the fun of giving her grandmother a gift, Azazel takes one of his knives out of the box: there’s a usb drive on a keychain attached to the sheath’s belt loop.

The good mood from before, cultivated first by the cigarettes and the gift for his mother then elevated by his niece, crashes at the sight.

He knows what is contained on the drive, at least in theory, and it curdles all the fairer emotions he was feeling into poison. He slips the usb drive into his jacket’s inside pocket and lets Karlygash distract him by admiring Janos’ gift with her grandmother. His mood has no chance to pick up and when his niece turns back to him she’s perceptive enough to sense it. Karlygash stops talking, pulls Azazel's arm over her shoulder, and leans against him for the rest of the ride.

Dinner turns into a group affair when Azazel’s mother invites everyone in but finds there aren’t many groceries in the house beyond potatoes, onions, and a few eggs. Of course, they’ve made do with less. Azazel takes his place beside his mother and dices up onions for her to brown and then potatoes to go on next. Tolegen comes by with his wife and daughter before the eggs are added. The two bottles of wine and fresh bread they bring make the gathering a little more robust.

Tolegen is the most Russian-looking of them with his mousy blond hair and grey eyes, even his skin is pale like their father. The joke goes that if not for his Russian looks he wouldn’t have been given a Kazakh name like Az was.

Dinner goes well enough for all it’s just eggs over crisped potatoes and caramelised onions with bread and wine. It’s the spontaneous and organic nature of the event that makes it interesting and nostalgic of the time when the lot of them were kids living packed together with three other families in their kommunalka. Az glances at his mother, sees her usual non-expression but assumes that she’s not had much to say because she’s feeling the nostalgia. It probably serves to remind her that she’s down a son, a husband, and now both her parents. Then again, she’s just as likely to be happy having all her children and two of her grandchildren all under her roof. She’s the type to focus on the positive as much as she can despite the appearance of a severe nature.

After dinner, the lot of them stay a bit longer for conversation but eventually make to head out. Marina offers to take him to their place, since they use his SUV, another Leda, while he’s out of town. Azazel shakes his head and she doesn’t press because she’s smart enough to know he’ll be talking to their mother about Janos as soon as they leave.

When everyone is gone, and Azazel has gathered the dinner plates and wine glasses, Azazel tops his mother’s wine glass off with the last of the wine and they begin to do the dishes together. It reminds Azazel of a similar situation just a few weeks ago when he was washing dishes with Sean at Raven’s house in Oregon. Now he understands Sean’s gaffe about not marrying cousins.

“You and Marina are keeping secrets,” his mother says before Azazel quite has his game plan sorted. “Are you going to tell me about your girlfriend now everyone is gone?”

Ah well, all or nothing, he supposes. “I’ve been in a relationship the past two and a half years.”

She nods, “I thought you were spending an unusual amount of time in America without a good reason. You always have reasons for what you do; you’re not flighty like Ilyusha or a moss-covered rock like Tola. I’ve been waiting to hear if you’re serious about this girl.”

“Not a girl,” Azazel says without pause, “a man.”

This conversation isn’t exactly one he thought he’d ever have in his life, but having it Azazel is. At least his family is known for bluntness even among the frankness of most Russians. Even so, his mother takes time to process what he’s said. To her credit she only slows in washing the dishes, doesn’t stop entirely.

“It’s a good thing your father never knew,” his mother finally says, but her tone has none of the condemnation it could. “Is this why you’ve never settled down with a woman?”

“I don’t know if I can settle,” Az says without pause, “with a man or woman; I like too much to move around. I still like women, though. Nothing has changed that.”

“Do you like men better now because Natalya and Valentina cheated on you?” Yes, his family is very blunt.

“Even I would cheat on me,” Azazel says, “I’m rarely around. That’s why I told Marzhan I didn’t care if she saw somebody on the side, as long as it was just me when I was here.”

“And that’s why Marzhan slapped you. Even if it’s inevitable someone will cheat on you, you still don’t tell them you assume it from the start.” She hands him a handful of rinsed cutlery. “So is that your agreement with this boy? He’s only faithful to you when you’re in America?”

“He’s nearly thirty, hardly just a boy.” Azazel keeps his calm and continues drying dishes at his usual rapid rate. “We’re monogamous. I didn’t expect or ask for that looking like he does, but he is faithful.”

Now she’s intrigued. “He’s good looking?”

“He is,” Azazel replies. Though he thinks Janos is beautiful on occasion, he doesn’t want to clothe him in feminine-sounding words under these circumstances. Not when people will have a tendency to see Janos as the so-called woman in the relationship. Janos struggles with that concept enough as it is.

Azazel sets the towel over his shoulder and takes out his phone. Normally he doesn’t have his personal phone assembled in Omsk, let alone switched on, but this was a topic he planned to broach, so he’s ready. He unlocks the phone and, as he did with Marina, selects one of Janos’ football pictures; mainly because it emphasizes Janos’ traditionally masculine traits. That is, he looks strong and fierce as he attacks the ball.

Azazel turns the phone toward his mother and is pleased to see her expression turn from her severe expression to a loosening that comes of surprise. Her mouth opens to say something but no words come out just yet. Azazel thinks he knows that feeling.

“He’s very strong,” Azazel says to prompt his mother’s response.

She nods. “He looks strong. He looks like a man.”

Azazel can’t help but chuckle at that. “What do I look like? Do I not look like a man, too?”

“Of course you do, but I expect you to be a man.” She sighs and pushes the phone back. “Do you have a picture of you together?”

Azazel has scads, but he takes the phone back to find one because some of the pictures of them together aren’t anything his mother needs to see. This phone doesn’t have any of the old Vancouver ski trips, those would be good, and there’s the blurry one of them on the train in New York that Marina saw. He settles on the embarrassing shot Janos took at his favourite wine store in Portland a few weeks ago. They’re both dressed well, Janos in his mix of stolid and well-travelled and Azazel in black with a conspicuous lack of layers for early March. Az has Janos by the side of his head, pulling him close to bury his nose in Janos’ hair. Janos’ smile is composed more of squinting eyes than it is curving lips. It’s one of Janos’ more authentic expressions; Az wants to be the only one that inspires it.

“This was a few weeks ago,” he says as he turns the phone to her again.

This time his mother brings a hand up and covers her thin lips with the tips of her fingers. “I haven’t seen your eyes look that soft since Karlygash fell asleep on you after you came home from the hospital.”

The Chechen grenade outside Dubrovka Theatre and his subsequent hospital stay isn’t something Azazel likes to think about, but it is the defining moment of his love and affection for Karlygash. Of all his little nieces and nephews, she was the one that never shied away from him during his painful, horror show of a recovery.

“I think you can see he is exceptional and thoughtful: the shawl is his gift to you,” Azazel says. “I never thought I would want anyone for long term, let alone a man. I wish he was a woman; my life would be less complicated. You know the trouble this could cause the business.”

“You know how to have a private life. Keep it private,” she says, still looking at the picture. “Your brothers will accept it if you decide to say something to them, and I certainly won’t stand in the way even though I don’t approve.”

Azazel inclines his head to the side. “Better than I expected.”

She hands the phone back. “Better than you deserve.”

Azazel laughs. “Deserve? Are you going to tell me that I’m immoral because I’m in a relationship with a man? Where was this when you realised I enjoy violence? You and papa always knew I was a heathen.”

Az has the good sense not to dodge when she slaps his stomach with one soapy hand. “If you’re trying to get this man on my good side, reminding me of your godlessness is a stupid thing to do. Is he godless, too?”

Perhaps his atheism comes from his father, but it’s the women in Azazel’s family that taught him critical thinking. “He’s Spanish, so Catholic.”

“Spanish? Aren’t they lazy? What kind of work does he do?”

“He works hard,” Azazel says and it’s not even because Janos wanted him to say that. It’s simply the truth. The modelling is the part he’s not sure how to approach; his former opinion of models was part of what led to the disastrous turn the relationship took when Azazel realized they were a real couple. He flips to one of the pictures he has from Janos working Balmain in Paris and hands the phone back. “He’s in marketing.”

The tightening of her eyes, the tension at her mouth speaks before she does. “Are you sure he’s faithful?”

Azazel’s fingers twitch with desire for the cigarettes and lighter he left on the dinner table. “Do you want to meet him and judge for yourself?”

She passes him back the phone and resumes washing dishes. “He’s lasted much longer than any of your girlfriends, so he must be worth meeting. What’s his name?”

“Janos. Janos Cecilio Ramos Arbo.”

“That’s a long name, what does it mean?”

It’s a good question, typical of his mother, but Azazel is in the not-so-rare position of not knowing this aspect of Janos. At least it’s something he can guess at. “I haven’t looked it up, but Janos is a Hungarian name. Probably the same as Ivan. And Cecilio must be… Sesil. I have no idea.”

“Ivan,” she says and squints up at the ceiling. “Isn’t that the name of one of the Christian disciples? The Beloved?”

“When did I become the expert?” Azazel resumes drying dishes. “Kirill is the philosophy teacher. Text him. As for meeting Janos, between his schedule and the visa requirements, the second half of August seems good.”

His mother nods and hands Azazel the last of the cutlery. When he takes it from her, she doesn’t let go immediately which draws his pale eyes to the dark brown of hers. “It’s a beautiful shawl, but don’t expect me to get excited about meeting him. If you’re set on this boy for the long term it means I won’t get grandchildren from you.”

“I told you, he’s a man, not a boy,” Azazel replies, and for once avoids laughing off his mother’s insistence that they all give her grandchildren. He’s never been against the idea of having kids, if he could just settle the fuck down. That’s always been more of challenge than finding a woman; there have been plenty of women he could make a family with, if not love. Love’s never been that important an element to relationships as far as Az has been concerned.

But his mother is right and it bothers Az somewhat that he’s probably going to close a door on the possibility of having a few little bastards of his own. Not that he’s going to admit it bothers him to his mother.

She releases the cutlery. “It’s enough that he’s not a woman, isn’t it? I thought you would want children eventually.”

“Karlygash is as close as that goes.” Azazel turns his focus back to drying the last of the cutlery. “She’s mine in spirit even if she’s Kirill’s in DNA.”

“Azat, my son,” his mother says and sets her damp hand on his forearm, “if you will deny yourself children because you don’t want them, I understand. But if you deny yourself children for lust of a handsome young man, then it’s not so different than losing out on the children Savva never had a chance to father.”

The effect she desires doesn’t manifest. She’s one of the only people Az allows to manipulate him, but when she goes in heavy like this nothing happens. One corner of his mouth lifts as he looks at her from the side. “Hmph, you already have two great grandchildren on the way and you still want to pester me? Savva didn’t make the way safer for me the way I did for Tola and Ilyusha. I don’t take all the credit for them surviving conscription, but it would have been worse for both of them, particularly Ilyusha, if I hadn’t. I’ve done my part to assure you have a hoard of grandchildren.”

A puff of air floats a stray lock of hair on her forehead with the sigh that escapes her. Azazel’s mother crosses her arms and leans back. “Has any other child lived up to their name like you? I should have named you something obedient or with overtures of filial piety!”

“Too late now, eh?” Azazel says with more of a laugh, because he likes his given name and all that ‘freedom’ implies, and he likes the name Azazel and all it implies, as well. “Shall I tell him you like the shawl? I won’t lie to him and say you do if you don’t.”

She glances over her shoulder at the kitchen table and the shawl she’s left hanging over her chair. “It’s lovely, but you should have told him my opinion can’t be bought.”

Another soft snort of humour escapes Azazel because it’s hard to tell if that’s what Janos had on his mind or not. Maybe bribery was a factor, but Azazel thinks it’s probably more purely an effort on Janos’ part to try to force himself into making a connection with Azazel’s family.

* * *

Azazel gets back to his apartment near Omsk’s main station after catching a late bus to Marina’s neighbourhood and picking up his black Leda. He finds his apartment immaculate, not a speck of dust, and even a few basic groceries in the fridge. His collection of liquor is untouched but for the obvious lack of dust, his guns where he leaves them in the kitchen and bedroom.

The only thing that’s out of place is a book on the kitchen counter: _Planet Water_ , the latest novel by Boris Akunin about the detective, Erast Fandorin. The book brings a smile to his face. He’s always liked detective novels but this series is close to his heart, introduced to him as it was by men in his special forces unit. He no longer has that first novel; he lost it years ago, but he has copies in Russian and English. It’s very likely been left there by Karlygash or Marina as they’re the only two with access to his spare key.

Azazel picks the book up, flips fondly through the pages, and sets it down again for later. He has the usb drive in his pocket to deal with. Business before pleasure when business is no pleasure itself. Azazel takes a bottle of decent vodka and a glass and leaves them in his study to power on his computer, flicking lights on as he goes. While the computer boots up, Azazel goes to his bedroom and drops Janos’ duffel on the bed.

Without all the distractions his family affords him Azazel has time to appreciate, once again, Janos’ hand in getting him to the burial. He supposes he could have just left any luggage at the airport in Almaty and gone back for it later, but things like that can yield bad results when you have knives in your bags.

He runs his fingers over the leather bag’s pronounced grain. Genuine Yves St Laurent and Janos has the nerve to throw it around like he bought it at a discount store. If he’d bought it for Janos he’d have been insulted. On impulse, he unpacks all the clothes from the bag for laundry and dry cleaning and, in the process, finds the small bag of toiletries Janos sent along. Azazel takes out the shampoo and conditioner, opens both small plastic bottles and waves them under his nose.

The scent seems to spell it all out for Az: he has it bad. The worst case of something that goes well beyond infatuation. That thing that makes him feel warm and weak and, strangely, charged in a way that makes him think he could take on a Siberian winter bare-armed. Azazel closes his eyes. Removing the solid fact that they are two men and cannot have offspring, he still wonders what kind of little assholes they would produce together.

A surge of anger and a welcome shock of pain: Az's free hand and his cheek burn with the sudden strike.

“Idiot,” Azazel tells himself and sets the bottles aside so he can strip off his jacket and vest. He unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, pulls up his shirt, and shoves down his slacks and boxers just below his hips. In the bedroom mirror he sees the bruises over his hipbones. They’ve faded in colour and diminished in size, but they’re still there and will be for a few more days. He presses a thumb into the centre of the darkest mark, but it doesn’t ache like it used to. It’s a disappointment.

Shaking his head at the folly of it all, Azazel pulls the belt from the trousers’ loops and goes back to the study where his computer has loaded. He leaves his shirt untucked, but zips his pants back up. There’s no way he’s going to be unzipped while dealing with the contents of the usb Janos has sent.

Tension creeps into Azazel’s sinews before he sits down in the cold leather chair. He hits the first glass of vodka hard, just to work it into his system, to loosen up tightening muscles, slots the usb drive into a port and pours another. There are four video files and one text file. The video files are titled animal names: _el gorila_ , _el gallo_ , _el perro_ , and _el conejo_. Gorilla, rooster, dog, and rabbit each conjure images in Azazel’s mind he really doesn’t want. None of the titles remind him of Isaac Heath except, perhaps, _the dog_. The text file is titled very simply as _read now_.

> I don’t know what is best, but I think you shouldn’t watch these. Instead I give you their names:
> 
> Gorila: Alejandro Maria Alvarez Garcia  
>  Gallo: Jean LaCroix  
>  Perro: Mateo Ruiz Gracia  
>  Conejo: Rafael Fuertes
> 
> All of them are married and have children and probably grandchildren. All of them are wealthy, but especially Gorila. He owns several businesses in Seville.
> 
> Gorila is the one that caused problems. The others are mostly meaningless to me and are probably happy enough I left. Gallo ran back to France. El Conejo used to be funny because he cries. I took only a little money from him but I tormented him for a year just for the crying. But Gorila, he will never forget and he will never let go.
> 
> These videos are not for your eyes. In my hands these are blackmail against them. In your hands, it is against me even though my face is unseen. It is only recently that I feel not good about this thing. It is done and I am not ashamed. These animals deserved it. But, you are right, it isn’t a good way to live.
> 
> If you wonder where is Mr Heath’s video, call me and I will tell you.

Azazel’s rage burns white-hot and clean. The chair’s leather creaks as he leans back. He takes a deep breath and controls the exhale.

He knows Gorila’s name and that he’s a business owner in Seville. That’s more than enough. He also knows a man that’s no longer in spetsnatz that owes him a favour. There are channels to go through to contact him, money will still be involved, but the only downside to the whole thing is how clean Azazel’s capable hands would be. Then again, an expertly-cut throat leaves no blood on the person of the knifeman.

This time when Azazel’s fingers twitch with muscle memory, he isn’t thinking of Janos’ father’s slit throat but of a potential one. He thinks about the feel of the knife, the slow scrape of stubble over the metal before the firm pull when it bites deep, parting skin and opening veins and arteries. The trick is to make the cut quick, to get the hands out of the way before the arterial spray.

Azazel takes a lighter out of his desk and a cigarette out of its case. He lights the cigarette and leans back again in the chair with his eyes closed and focuses on drawing in the hot smoke and then exhaling it in streams. For a few minutes more he distracts himself with smoke tricks like blowing different kinds of smoke circles. It’s the sort of thing Janos finds amusing. When he’s feeling playful, Janos usually turns the smoke rings into tornadoes by spinning his hand or fingers to make a vortex.

It’s just after midnight when Azazel has taken the edge off his fury and decides to call Janos. It will be just after 10am in New York and Janos will either be doing conversation lessons or he may have modelling work. Azazel hasn’t ever contacted Janos by phone from Russia; he’s cautious even when he’s using his encrypted messaging app on his Russian phone. But he can’t not. He pours himself out another drink and updates all of his security before opting to use his personal phone on his apartment’s wifi.

He hits send and then stands up to pace some more energy out of his system that smoking couldn’t. Isaac Heath isn’t that big a problem though it would be better to have the blackmail material. The angry energy is knowing that this man, Alejandro Maria Alvarez Garcia, not only fucked Janos but has also caused him other problems. What kind of problems? Intimidation? Physical pain? Attacks on family? All of that?

It takes a while before Janos picks up. The phone clicks and resolves the connection and then he hears Janos’ voice. He sounds out of breath and there’s music in the background again.

“Cabrn,” Janos says, more exhale than voice.

“Yanochka,” Azazel replies and lifts the hand to his nose that handled the shampoo and conditioner. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Janos says. “First, did you read the message?”

“The one on usb.” Azazel drops his hand to his vodka and takes a drink. He considers lighting a cigarette. “You were going to tell me why Heath’s file isn’t there.”

“It isn’t there because I deleted it.”

Azazel closes his eyes and sets the glass on the desk. He needs to buy that ticket back to New York. “You deleted. Why? You do understand that teachers who fuck their students deserve what they get, yes?”

The music is easy to hear in the absence of Janos’ immediate reply.

“Yanochka?”

Music and the faint sound of Janos’ breathing and no other sound except Az’s fingernails on his glass.

“Are you well? Is this something we need text for?” Azazel opens his eyes and looks at the computer monitor. He needs another cigarette and a blistering hot shower. In that order and quickly.

“No.” Janos’ voice is clear but sounds distant despite the steady volume. “No text. You know, it was… I wanted to fuck him back then. I wanted it.”

“Yes, and you wanted others, too,” Azazel says, perhaps too much jealousy gets into his mouth and makes him feel like the irrational asshole of the year prior. “Now what are you doing? Working out? Early for dancing.”

“My apartment’s sublease is finishing soon.” Janos’ voice still sounds odd, less inflected. It’s what makes him sound distant. “I’m moving in with Carlos and his two roommates.”

Azazel swears loudly and puts the phone down on the desk. He takes the cigarette case from his pocket, retrieves another cigarette, and lights it with the lighter from his desk. He takes a deep and grounding breath of smoke and nicotine and picks the phone up again. Blyahd, he’s never had a lover that made him smoke so much. “What’s going on with Carlos?”

“Nothing. Carlos and I are nothing.” The line is quiet for a few moments more and Azazel thinks maybe the call’s been dropped, but then he hears Janos sigh. “Cabron, I’ve been thinking and I’ve realized I need to make changes. I’ve been avoiding things in my life and I think I should be more like you and face it head on.”

“Why this so suddenly?” Azazel asks. “I don’t think less of you after what you told me, Janos. I don’t think less of you because of files you sent. You understand, don’t you? You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Again, Janos takes his time replying and Azazel wonders what else Janos hasn’t told him. But no, Janos wouldn’t lie about Carlos, not when he’s been honest about the blackmail. In the background he hears the music switch off and indistinct voices take over.

“It’s your fault, but not in a bad way,” Janos says. His voice is low and even. “You ask me for things that nobody has ever wanted. You want me to be better to you than I’m used to being to anyone. You want to be good to me, too. What I’m doing is because of that. It’s for both of us.”

“What are you doing?” Even though he hates repeating himself, Azazel tries to keep calm. He doesn’t want to revisit the past or the violent anger his jealousy and possessiveness unleash in him. “Do you need money? I can help you live in your own place.”

Janos’ sigh is heavy on the phone. “Az, I don’t want to be your… mistress? Boy? I want to know I can make a life of my own without help. Like Raven did.”

“More impulsive than usual.” Azazel turns his cigarette case over and over in one hand. Despite the chill inside the apartment, his skin is hot under his button up. He’s withstood worse, though. “Have I pushed too hard?”

“Az.” Janos sighs heavily over the phone. “Stop making it sound like I’m breaking up with you. I’m moving in with three roommates so I can quit working three jobs and concentrate on intense physical conditioning for an audition in August.”

“August,” Azazel says and blows a long stream of smoke up over his head. “Are you still doing Balmain and Joseph Abboud? Will you still visit Omsk?”

“I don’t think I’ll be signed for Balmain’s runway,” Janos says and the lack of disappointment in his voice surprises Az. “But I’ll be signed for an upcoming Nike and Balmain collaboration. What they’re doing is unexpected and very lucky for me. I will probably do Joseph Abboud’s Winter and Fall runway, but I can’t be sure because my measurements will be changing. But, no matter what, I will meet you in Russia in five months.”

“You’ll meet me at airport in two, maybe three, days,” Azazel says by way of correction. “What is this important audition in August that requires physical conditioning that will threaten fittings? You’re not thinking of football are you? You’re too old to start now.”

“ _Me cago en tu puta de madre!_ I’m twenty-nine and already too old for _everything_ I want to do. You think I don’t know? _Hostia!_ ”

The venom in Janos’ voice is entirely expected. Azazel doesn’t usually say the wrong thing but when he does he accepts the anger and whatever else comes his way. Probably he should send flowers for that one everyday for a week. If he knew Janos’ new address. Fuck. When does he move?

“I said something stupid.” Azazel holds the cigarette in his mouth and pours himself another drink with his free hand.

“Forgiven,” Janos says, but fails to sound at all forgiving. “Listen, what I want from you hasn’t changed, Cabron, how to get what I want has. I will meet you in Russia five months from now. I can’t focus if you’re here and I can’t afford to be distracted.”

“Are you suggesting we take five-month break?” At this rate Azazel thinks he’s going to kill off the whole bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes. “What the fuck, Janos?”

“I know.” Now Janos’ voice becomes soft. “I want to be in contact the whole time. Five months is longer than we’ve been apart and… and it will be hard for me. It might be hard for you, maybe sexually. Fidelity is important to you, but if you want to fuck someone else while we’re apart, I will understand.”

Azazel’s cigarette takes a beating. He crushes it out against the desk and then shreds it between his fingers and thumb. “I’m not fucking animal like on that list, Janos! I like sex, but is not most important part of relationship. If you think you need five months then you take five, but we are still together. I’m not fucking anyone else.”

It’s not unexpected this time when Janos doesn’t immediately reply. Emotions are high and the higher Janos’ when he’s upset the more likely he is to either shut up or go off in Spanish-language invective. It all depends on whether he’s alone or not.

“Az,” he finally says, “I’m glad that in this fairy story I’m not the virgin and you’re not the knight or the dragon.”

How Janos defuses his anger in situations like this with little pieces of poetic thought is always a source of wonder to Az. He exhales the heat from his head and brushes the remains of his cigarette from his fingertips. Slowly, he leans against one of the study walls and lets the cold surface vanquish his warm skin. “Perhaps you aren’t for saving. Maybe you are prince.”

“Of course I’m a prince,” Janos says, now so quiet it’s hard to hear him. “Because you aren’t here to take the peas and bullets from under my bed, it will be five months before I sleep well again.”

“Five months. Intense exercise will help you sleep if I can't be there,” Azazel replies. “And probably five months of work will help recoup money I have been spending on hotel rooms.”

“We always talk more when you work than when you're in Russia, anyway. I’ll be busy, but I’ll make time to talk every week and I'll send messages every day. I promise.”

“I believe you, but you know I will worry about your health.”

“And I'll worry about yours if you do any more work around the equator.”

“Now you sound like my mother.”

It takes five minutes more, of what Azazel thinks he will remember as embarrassing drivel, to hang up with Janos and even then Az continues leaning against the wall, soaking up the cold for another ten. The next few things he does is cap the vodka, arrange for flowers, and make a gift purchase of several beautifully illustrated fairy tale books. It's unlikely Janos will have time to read them if his training is going to be intense, but it's the gesture that's important.


	20. Interlude: Short works iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first two pieces are from before things go sour in their relationship (pre-Anniversary fic). The third is not long before the events of the tattoo fic. The last one is a surprise. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm moving house and I'm not sure how disruptive that will be to the upload schedule so I'm posting this early. I don't think there will be an upload next weekend. Worst case scenario: I might miss a couple weeks. 
> 
> Also, thank you for commenting. I always say this but it's always true: my long fics are completed thanks to reader interest.

_**Drunk and disorderly** _

They get back to the loft before 2am with no further incidents. Azazel is no worse for wear despite the amount of use his knuckles had seen, but Janos is having trouble navigating his own home. Azazel keeps an arm around his waist and guides him to the bathroom.

He flips the light switch and helps Janos to the two-sink counter and turns the water on for him. Janos, ever thoughtful about his clothes, removes his cuff links and pushes up his sleeves before splashing water on his face. 

While Janos washes his face, Azazel inspects Janos' suit jacket for bloodstains and finds none. He removes a towel from one of the bathroom's hangers and replaces it with the satiny-sleek jacket. 

"Hostia," Janos swears softly.

Azazel moves to Janos' side with the towel and Janos turns to rub his face with it.

"How are you feeling now?"

Janos shakes his head with the towel pressed to his face still. His voice is muffled when he speaks. "If I did not feel so bad, you would be fucking me fully dressed."

The notion brings warmth and ill-timed arousal to Azazel's senses. He's not sure why Janos feels that way though he suspects it was the fight.

"Is that right?" he asks and runs his hand through Janos' thick hair. "Maybe some aspirin will ease the headache and we can try."

Janos lifts his face from the towel and shakes his head carefully. "It is better when it is spontaneous. Aspirin, though, is a good idea."

"Orgasm is also good way to ease headache," Azazel says, only half-teasing. He's more than willing to lay Janos back and then suck him off if Janos would allow it. Janos never allows Azazel to take tender sexual care of him, though. Their sex is usually energetic and often rough.

Accordingly, it's no surprise when Janos quietly says 'no' and gestures to the bathroom medicine cabinet. Azazel doesn't go there just yet, he pulls Janos close and presses lips to his damp forehead. 

"Why would you be so excited? Did you see something you like tonight?" 

It's a slow reply but Janos closes his eyes and returns the embrace. "I can protect myself, but it was thrilling to watch you move. I always knew you are brutal and powerful, but now I have seen it."

Azazel exhales a chuckle. "I thought this was why. Normally, I would not intervene violently, but I leave you for five minutes to find aspirin and when I come back I see him grab your ass. He deserved worse than I gave him."

Janos is warm against Azazel's body. "I can take care of myself, but it was good you helped."

Azazel presses his lips to Janos' forehead again and releases him. "What good is my training if I do not use it for you?"

Janos opens his eyes again for a smile. "Give me the aspirin, cabron."

It's ridiculous to keep putting it off to indulge in sentiment. Azazel leaves close contact with Janos to open the medicine cabinet. It's full of a dizzying array of bottles. 

He locates the aspirin and shakes two out and hands them to Janos. Janos takes them with a handful of water from the sink while Azazel puts the bottle back with all the others. 

Most of them are from health stores and are marked in red marker with a J. Janos takes a variety of different vitamins and supplements and he's not stingy about sharing them with his roommates. Many of them, though, are beyond Azazel's comprehension. 

The one labeled Q10 for example. He plucks it off the shelf and turns to Janos. "What is this?"

"Good for skin," Janos explains.

There's a bottle of vitamins for pregnant women that lifts Azazel's eyebrows. It has no mark on it so he suddenly wonders if Raven is expecting. He shows it to Janos and Janos grins.

"She takes them for healthy hair, not pregnancy."

Another bottle that makes him wonder is marked with a J and is labeled Psyllium Husks. "And this?"

"Fiber," Janos says, this time biting his lips to keep from a smile.

"You need fiber?" Azazel asks dubiously. Janos is still in his twenties; Azazel can't comprehend such a young man needing to take fiber.

The corner of Janos' mouth stretches up immediately. "It keeps my shit firm so we can fuck without so much planning. I like it when you fuck me so I want to always be ready."

"Ah." Azazel looks down at the bottle and then back at Janos. "Vitamins for good shits; only in decadent West."

"Sex-friendly shits," Janos says and then his smile stretches wide and evenly. "Very important, no?"

"Of course." And as dumb and crude as this is, Azazel knows he's the one that's fucked when talks about bowel movements endear Janos to him even more. 

He puts the bottle away and slips an arm around Janos' waist. "You are first person I have been with that takes shit so seriously."

Janos flips the light switch off and lets Azazel guide him to the bedroom. "I suppose sex with you is worth an investment."

"Stop talking before I do something I regret," Azazel replies with apparent humor. Blyahd, he wants to lay this bastard Spaniard down and fuck him slow and sweetly as a virgin bride. The impulse makes him want nothing so much as to punch himself in the face.

* * *

_**Domestic?** _

Janos shops at farmers markets and Whole Foods for most of his groceries and everyday needs. Azazel thinks Whole Foods is insidious, but when he visits they nearly always end up here because Janos doesn't have a car. He usually uses the buses when it rains, a bicycle when it doesn't, and sometimes he goes with Sean if he has elaborate cooking plans.

And so, Azazel finds himself on shopping trips into the strange world of organic and cruelty free food. It's also where Janos buys lubricant and, when his preferred brand isn't available online, condoms.

They don't go through condoms as quickly since Janos suggested they do a health check. Though Azazel had assumed he would always need to use condoms with Janos, he was pleasantly surprised when Janos' results were completely clear. He'll never admit it, but he had figured someone as beautiful and likely promiscuous as Janos would be living with an std.

In the end, Janos only buys things from the store he can't get closer to the loft or from the farmers market: imported meats and cheeses, a particular variety of yoghurt, and five or six bottles of the expensive aloe vera lubricant he prefers. The bottles are small so they go through them quickly, but they're also too big to carry discreetly. 

This time when Janos starts taking the bottles off the shelf, Azazel places a hand on Janos'. "Why not try something else? Always you complain about the packets of lubricant we use when we don't plan ahead. Let's find something better."

Janos' hand goes still under Azazel's grasp, but his brow lowers immediately. A light of heat, not the good kind, kindles in his eyes. "You can choose the lubricant when it's your ass it goes in."

"Surely there is something similar," Azazel continues as if Janos is not actually being as stubborn as a mule. "We compare ingredients and find something similar in better container."

Janos pulls his hand away, looks straight in Azazel's eyes, and dumps the two bottles in his basket. "No."

"But you hate bottle as much as I do," Azazel says. "We should buy something convenient."

Janos turns back to the shelf. Another pair of bottles goes into the basket. "So convenience is more important than my pleasure?"

"You tell me," Azazel replies, because answering that question himself will make his life far less pleasant.

"Az," Janos says archly, "this is the only one with aloe and skin conditioning ingredients. It is good for my skin and it is made also with yeast infections in mind, so you don't get a urinary track infection from fucking me. You do know that I shit from the same place you fuck, yes?"

A pair of women pass them in the aisle, both keep their eyes trained resolutely forward with an intensity that is anything but accidental. One of them is biting her lip. Azazel isn't uncomfortable with their presence because, really, who wouldn't want the world to know they're fucking someone as desirable as Janos? However, it's not often Janos will say so much and so loudly in public.

"Of course," Janos continues, and drops a fifth and sixth bottle into his shopping basket, "if you want to use condoms all the time, perhaps I would not worry about your pisshole. But then again, maybe it is enough for you that I like the way it feels the best. Eh, cabron?"

The expression on Janos' face is almost pure condescension, only tempered slightly by irritation. It's not doing what Janos wants. No, it makes Azazel want to shove him against the shelves of lube and condoms and fuck him hard and fast with whatever lube ends up at hand. It's perverse but getting under Janos' skin is one of many things that gets Azazel hard.

"I did not time it," Azazel says and causes Janos to narrow his eyes in irate confusion. "But I think that was longest public comment I have ever heard you make."

Janos' eyes widen in sudden outrage. Then comes a stream of Spaniard invectives and abuse Azazel has rarely had directed his way.

"Janos, please," Azazel says and lifts one hand in a placation meant to anger him further. "There are children, eh?"

* * *

_**Obligatory sick fic** _

It's a ship out of Dalian so his men keep joking that they've got a SARS outbreak on board. Azazel doesn't find it funny. It doesn't help that this job isn't entirely on the up and up. They try to avoid mafia associated jobs but it gets harder and harder when the thieves are thick as.

He especially doesn't find it funny when the first of his guys comes down with the flu in week one. It isn't like they can stop somewhere in the Arctic and get meds; their resources are limited and Azazel hates playing doctor. He passes the medicine box to an underling and tells him to deal with it. 

Week two, Azazel's group has two sick bastards and one recovering. His second is down as is the man he designated medic. This time he passes medic duties to the recovering guard. Unfortunately for the sick, Azazel can only cut them so much slack; they still have shifts, they're just shorter. The only good thing that week is Janos doing a classy black and white shoot for _Desnudo_. The evil bastard feeds Az one shot every few days and each shows progressively more skin. 

Week three sucks. He's got three sick, two recovered, and one still weak as fuck all. Everyone is pulling longer shifts and tempers are flaring. His second informs him there's a pool going on whether or not Az or their IT specialist will go down next. Azazel passes him some cash to put down on the other guy going first.

On the other hand, Janos has sent some risqué images from the _Desnudo_ photos this week. He's posing nude, but the deep black shadows in the photos hide his dick. Not so that glorious ass of his. Janos has the sort of ass that football builds up, the sort of ass you can really sink your teeth into. Azazel spends long periods in the shower, no matter the supply of hot water, making elaborate plans for that ass. He suspects his underlings know why he occasionally takes such long showers, but he doesn't care.

Week four is the last one; they'll put into port in Alaska in a few days and Azazel will take a flight to Portland. Janos is saving his most provocative photo for the day they get into port. Azazel doesn't know how it could get more provocative without getting tacky, but Janos has far too much taste for that to happen.

The ridiculous cold going around the crew and his security detail has tapered off. So far Azazel and his IT guy are unscathed but they've killed off what little raspberry jam and honey they had access to and have replaced water with drinking nothing but hot tea and bullion soup.

It only prolongs the inevitable; the day before they hit port Azazel feels a tickle in his throat and his lips feel unaccountably dry. His IT guy has been sneezing. Azazel doubles up on his daily vitamins and any citrus he can find. 

When they finally put in to port Azazel's sinuses are so packed that he's actually dizzy. Filling out paperwork takes him longer than usual and his temper is thinner and more delicate than the ship's single ply toilet paper. The IT guy is worse, but nobody wants to go through medical assessment so they try to act normal. 

Azazel's second gives him back his money as they disembark: nobody really knows who got sick first. 

Once everyone is good for transit, Azazel heads for the airport. The picture he gets on the drive over nearly clears his sinuses. 

The thing about flying while congested is how your head doesn't pressurize like it should and half convinces you it's imploding. Seeing as Az had once nearly had his face exploded, he finds the ordeal _fascinating_. When Azazel arrives in Portland the cold has been joined by a headache and earaches. 

Seeing Janos waiting for him outside the gate is a relief; he won't have to drive. Even dressed down Janos makes casual look seductive. He's dressed for summer heat in white linen shorts and shirt. Azazel loves it when Janos wears white. If he wasn't feeling like shit he would look forward to making out with him in the rental or an elevator or somewhere else momentarily private.

Janos meets him right at the gate, takes his bags and his coat. "Are you sick?"

"Just a cold," Azazel replies and fails at not sounding sick as fuck to even his own clogged ears. 

"Hostia." Janos pauses right there and drops everything to slap his hand on Azazel's forehead. "You have a fever. Why didn't you say?"

"Denial," Azazel admits. "I was thinking only about what I would do to your ass."

"Think about it when you are well," Janos says and picks up the bags and coat again.

Even though they've been having a little trouble with their relationship lately, Janos never acts like anything is off, never scales back his affection. This time is no different. He drives them back to his loft, stopping only for cold medicine that he makes Azazel take in the car, and immediately puts Azazel in the shower. 

The water's heat helps unclog his head a little and helps with the sore throat but starts his sinuses draining. He's a mess when he finally makes it out again but at least one of his ears has finally popped. The other keeps crackling weirdly like static from the black and white television they'd had in the kommunalka.

In the kitchen area Janos has two saucepans on heat but, saint that he is, already has tea brewed. He presses a mug into Azazel's hands and seats him at the table with a kiss to the forehead and disgustingly sweet Spanish endearments. Azazel doesn't even get this level of sweetness from his paternal grandmother; it's mortifying. 

He kind of likes it. He also kind of wants to punch himself in the face.

"What are you cooking?" he asks to deflect the rising awkwardness he feels.

"My abuelita's cold remedy. Raven and Sean like cold medicine but this is better." He looks up from the sauce pan with a warm smile. "And stock for chicken soup. I will go out for the chicken later."

"In Russia many people don't trust medicine." Azazel says and takes a drink of strong and honeyed tea. "But both is good."

Azazel wonders if he will ever meet Janos' grandmother. If so, he thinks he would compliment her on teaching Janos so many recipes. Knowing Janos, though, he'll will never meet any of his family or friends from Spain. It's a shame, Azazel might look like a dangerous bastard, might be one, but surely Janos' family would never doubt how safe Janos would be kept.

Blyahd, he's getting sappy. What the fuck is wrong with him? His mother would get a sparkle in her eye if she knew how maudlin Janos makes him. He's her only unmarried child. It's always a surprise how deep he is in with this hot piece of male model ass. Fuck, why a man? He can't take a man home to his mother, what is he even thinking? Spaniards are better about homosexuality; he should be meeting Janos' mother, maybe his father if he's still around.

Embarrassed with his reckless train of thought, Azazel drains half the mug of tea just to feel the burn go down his throat. "Do you have raspberry jam?"

Janos leaves the saucepan to search the cabinets. A quick look turns up nothing. "I will get some. Why?"

"To put in tea." Perhaps this is a Russian custom. "Cold remedy."

Janos takes one of the saucepans off the heat and adds a cup of what might be lemon juice and starts pouring in honey straight from a jar with a honeycomb inside. "I would like to try that."

The door to the loft rattles and then opens to admit Sean who takes one step in and recoils in distaste. "Jesus, that's a lot of garlic!"

Janos doesn't react, only strains the contents of the saucepan into another pan he has waiting in the sink. If there's a strong smell of garlic, Azazel hasn't the first clue; he's not aware that soup broth calls for much in the way of garlic, but he's not a picky eater. Though... honey and garlic sounds like a stretch.

"Oh, hey Azazel," Sean greets and walks around the table to where Azazel sits. "You hung over? You look kind of out of it and your hands are suspiciously empty of Janos' ass."

Sean must be trying to annoy Janos with a comment like that, but it isn't untrue so Azazel lets it go. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug because shaking his head is currently a travesty. "Cold and cold medicine."

"Shitty combination. Are you stuffed up?" Sean asks and sets his backpack on the table. "I've got a box of Kleenex I haven't opened. They're not scratchy or anything."

The offer comes as a surprise; both Raven and Sean have been more or less stand-offish as late. Az can't blame them; they've heard one or two of the yelling matches he and Janos have gotten into recently and he sure as fuck wouldn't offer himself tissues after that. "No, thank you."

"Your nose's funeral, man," Sean replies. "But since you can't smell all the garlic, you might have lucked out."

Janos ladles the cloudy liquid from the sink into another mug and turns to the table. He sneers at Sean. "The table is for food, not your bag."

"Yes, mom," Sean sighs and takes his backpack off the table and slings it over one shoulder. "What is that, anyway?"

Janos takes Azazel's tea and hands him the new mug. "Cold medicine."

"The garlic lemon stuff, huh?" Sean looks at Azazel with sympathy. "That's some tough love right there."

"Best kind," Azazel says into the steam coming off the brew. He can smell the garlic now, but it doesn't phase him. When he takes the first few tentative sips he finds the flavor not quite horrible, but at the uncomfortable edge that most Western medicines seem to require. "Not bad."

Sean smirks and heads for his room at the far end of the loft. He lifts his face to the ceiling as he goes and says, "Everything tastes better with looove!"

Janos turns out to be a remarkably good shot with a lemon: he gets Sean in the spine, just to the left of the backpack.

The garlic tea helps more than Azazel expects but after that Janos insists on putting him to bed to rest. Azazel thinks it's bullshit because while he certainly does feel like shit, it's nice sitting at the table where he can watch Janos cook. He only succumbs when Janos explains he has to go get groceries. Azazel has no desire to be in public so he finally retires to Janos' room and relaxes on the bed. He's disappointed that he can't even smell Janos on the sheets.

Three hours later, Janos wakes him up with more garlic tea which he drinks while Janos sits next to him, one arm around his waist. It's sweet. He both likes and detests it.

"I am no invalid," Azazel says, but he's not cross. They've cooked for each other and made each other tea. And when Janos a few weeks of struggling with shin splints, Azazel had doted on him. It's just give and take, but it's not easy to give in to.

Janos takes no offense, but merely smiles his mischievous lopsided smile and gives Azazel's waist a squeeze. "Dinner will be ready soon."

The bastard then pushes the long hair from Azazel's face and feels his forehead. "The tea will help with your fever, but take the cold medicine, too. There are tissues for your nose."

Azazel would snort, but it's impossible with a head stuffed full of mucus, so he resigns himself to smacking Janos' ass when he gets up. He wishes he could do more than just that.

When Azazel makes it out of the bedroom some twenty minutes later, both Sean and Raven are hovering around the kitchen area chatting. Janos is relaxed around them, so much so that even when Azazel enters Janos doesn't go quiet. Usually in a group of three or more Janos pays close attention but his participation diminishes. 

It's no wonder Janos' two roommates have gathered, after the cold medicine and Janos' garlic tea, Azazel can smell the food Janos has been working on. It's heavenly. 

"Hey Az. Sean said you look like shit," Raven greets, "but I didn't really believe it."

Azazel waves her comment away and takes his previous seat at the table, but Sean chimes in next. 

"You are welcome to be sick in our home," Sean says with far too much cheer, "if you don't give anyone the plague and Janos is going to cook."

"I always cook," Janos says and starts ladling soup over a bowl of rice. "Sometimes Azazel cooks, but you and Raven buy take out."

"I make excellent sauce for pasta," Raven says as she ties her golden hair into a tail. "And don't forget the lavender cookies. You're not crazy about them like Erik, but I know you love them."

It's cute watching the three of them bicker; it's playful. Everyone knows Janos likes cooking. Azazel suspects it makes Janos feel useful or maybe it takes his mind off whatever mysterious things bother him. But they all know it's also a way he can show affection or provide for them and have no worry of looking weak.

Eventually Janos tells them to sit down or he won't give them anything. Raven and Sean hastily sit on the opposite side of the table from Azazel. They nudge each other with their elbows like little children.

"Wow, you haven't said a word," Raven says to Az once elbowing Sean gets boring. "Does your throat hurt?"

"Will you stop asking questions if I say yes?" He doesn't sound as bad as earlier but he's nowhere near normal. 

"Stop bothering him," Janos says from the kitchen bench. He's finished filling bowls with soup and is now adding what looks like diced boiled eggs and ham on top. 

Raven leans across the table and says in a stage whisper, "You be sick all you like, Az, if it means he cooks like this. The chicken's been on for three hours."

Azazel smirks and shakes his head. Chicken soup. Of course. When Janos starts bringing the bowls of soup over it looks as good as it smells. The white broth is filled with rice, chicken, garbanzos, plenty of vegetables, studded liberally with smoked ham, and topped with chopped boiled eggs and sprigs of mint. 

When Janos seats himself he sets a plate of halved lemons in the middle of the table. "It's good with lemon."

"The lemon you hit me with better not be here." Sean pokes at the lemons.

"Too bad," Janos says and takes one half and hands another to Azazel. "It is definitely here."

The soup is even better than the already high expectations had assumed. Janos is visibly pleased that Azazel kills off two bowls and that even his two roommates go for seconds (though less ambitious that Azazel's). There proves to be store-bought lemon meringue pie for dessert but Sean and Raven are too full to eat more than a sliver each. Azazel puts back twice as much as them while Janos has a glass of sweet white wine. 

After dinner Sean and Raven wash dishes. Janos puts the rice away but leaves the soup on the stove: there's enough for another meal and no room in the fridge. Thankfully the weather is cool enough the soup will be fine where it is. 

Chores done, Sean and Raven head for the living area to play table tennis and Janos drags Azazel over to the rug-strewn area behind the freight elevator shaft where the entertainment system is set up. Janos puts on a movie but falls asleep in Azazel's lap maybe half an him into it. Azazel keeps watching, absently running his fingers through Janos' hair. He doesn't know how he got so lucky to have someone like Janos, but he wishes he could keep him. He'd fight any kind of battle, it's just so fucked up that to keep Janos from going to New York he has to fight the person he least wants to fight.

* * *

_**Football Politics**_ (while Janos and Az were outside)

Charles puts down his coffee the moment he hears the front door close and turns to Erik with a raised eyebrow. "Did that really just happen?"

Erik gives him a confused look. "If you mean Azazel has a tattoo, yes. It's not a mob tattoo, if that's bothering you."

Charles had hardly even looked at the tattoo; it looked like the ugly kind done for a heavy metal band and quickly regretted. 

"No, not that," Charles says with no small mount of incredulity. He lowers his voice and says, "That with Janos."

Erik's face composes a thoughtful expression. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"He was so conscientious!" Charles has a hard time believing Erik didn't see how gentle Azazel was. "He was so careful not to wake Janos! He even gave him a pillow to hold and Then he touched his face before he got up."

Erik's brow furrows and he tilts his head in confusion. "Yes? You know they're a couple, right? Those are things couples do."

"I know, but it's Azazel." It being Azazel should explain everything but Charles is surprised to find Erik unmoved. "He's an intimidating asshole!"

"You heard him," Erik replies with a shrug. "Janos is having sleeping problems: he's probably worried. People are often more affectionate when it comes to people they're worried about."

"But he's an intimidating asshole! They don't get worried. They don't display emotion like decent human beings!"

Erik looks at Charles. His brow furrows again. "Charles, Azazel is a compassionate person. Did you not notice that he's helped Raven move and he's helping with Sean's move, too?"

That gives Charles pause. While attraction explains Raven it doesn't explain Sean. "Well, I guess Janos is a good influence."

Erik rolls his eyes. "Believe what you like but Janos is probably less kind than Azazel. Back when I first met him he was coming out of an extremely annoying arrogant, vain gay male stage."

"That may be so, but he always cooks for us," Charles says, "and he's been very gracious to me. In fact, he took great care of me while Raven was working."

"Yes," Erik says quietly and takes another drink of his coffee. "And did you happen to know that before Azazel Janos had only two types? One night stands and extremely wealthy guys he never took back to the loft. Which type would you have been?"

Charles blanches, because he has experience with gold-diggers. "But I met him at the loft."

Erik shrugs. "I'm just saying Azazel doesn't sugarcoat anything. What you see is what you get. And since he's invested in Janos that manifests in shows of affection."

"But," Charles says, "he's so abrasive. I don't understand what Janos sees in him. Is it money?"

Erik shakes his head. "Azazel has money, yes, but Janos apparently took him back to the loft first thing. So it isn't about money. Raven says they just clicked somehow. You're going to have to accept that Azazel is a compassionate human being and an asshole simultaneously. Moreover he's capable of loving somebody and being loved in return."

Charles sighs and goes to refill his cup, but Erik takes it from him and goes toward the coffeemaker himself. "I suppose. I guess even a beast has a beauty, but I thought that was fairytale stuff."

"Charles, I know it's hard for you to understand, but it's likely that Janos is the love of Azazel's life." 

"That's a bit dramatic," Charles sputters. It's such a strange thing to say! Especially about somebody that displays such few positive emotions that aren't stained with arrogance or mockery. 

Erik refills Charles' mug and hands it back. He's smiling the faintest bit. "Even assholes can have great love affairs. Look at you."

Charles rolls his eyes. "Thank you for that."

Erik leans down and presses his lips to Charles' forehead. "Just keep it in mind. Subtly watch them interact and you'll see what I mean."

"I guess." Charles kisses Erik back on the cheek. "I just wonder if it's mutual. Janos deleted all the pictures of Azazel on his Instagram when they broke up and he's never added any new ones."


	21. Butterflies and hurricanes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was phoned in. 
> 
> (Heh, that is, this chapter is mostly phone conversations.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to spare you most of the drama and just apologise for dropping off the face of the earth. I've started meds for ADHD, let's hope they help me get back on this horse.

_Butterflies and hurricanes_

 The hickies over Azazel’s hipbones fade too fast and leave him agitated without their ephemeral presence. Without them, he finds himself considering wearing the autumn-coloured scarf Janos gave him the morning Janos took him back. He keeps it in his personal effects when he’s working, but he’s never worn it. Orange isn’t his style, patterns less so. It’s there because it smells of Janos. He doesn’t wear the scarf, but he takes to keeping the small bottles of shampoo and conditioner on him.

There’s much to do in St Petersburg whenever Azazel visits. He doesn’t have an apartment there but one of his business partners has an aunt that rents out rooms in one of the newly-fashionable kommunalka and he usually stays there. She cooks for him if he’ll be there for it and lets him prepare her antique samovar where she doesn’t even allow the foreign students to do more than take hot water from its tap. The cooking is a nice touch and terrifying the foreign students is always fun, but Azazel doesn’t have much time for the first and his tolerance for the latter is at an all-time low.

He meets with his partners, makes plans for as much work as possible for the next few months, and sets up a meeting with a go-between that fixes things with Azazel’s former colleague who is now in acquisitions. Acquisitions of targets. A purveyor of finely-crafted death.

It takes a few days to make arrangements. Money is dispatched to an intermediary who will arrange a casino marker in Atlantic City and Azazel gets an assurance el Gorila will be removed discreetly.

All that’s left is to arrange a photo of the man for identification purposes. Less investigation makes his former colleague’s work quicker and more accurate. Az can appreciate that. To mark the occasion Azazel privately absolves Janos of his secret-keeping since he has no intention of telling him about his role in whatever death comes to Gorila.

Before he leaves Petersburg, he goes out for drinks with his partners. They’re relieved he’s returning to fieldwork: things go much better when one of them (him) is in the field on the more important security details. They try to tease him about the rumours he has a girlfriend in the American Pacific Northwest or possibly New York and that he’s thinking about settling down in America.

Azazel stuns them by not denying and that shuts the teasing down, but it’s his lack of forthcoming details that closes the subject. Leva goes so far as to swear in shock, thump Az on the back, fill up all their glasses, and then drop the subject.

In light of Azazel’s January request to take time off, Leva and Grisha will surely talk later. Azazel doesn’t care as long as they don’t contribute to any stupid rumours circulating among their employees. People always say it’s women that are gossips, Az thinks men are on equal footing, if not worse.

Leva and Grisha are men Azazel can trust, but they’re better off not knowing about Janos. There’s too much homophobia in the military and it’s even worse among the mafia which has infiltrated every level of society, but which has always been heavily involved in the shipping industry. Azazel can’t think of any port in any part of the world that’s unaffected, and he’s been to quite a few. He and his partners try to avoid the mafia business, but sometimes it’s better to accept the inevitable and be ready to cut losses.

Business arranged in Petersburg, Az is free to go back to Omsk and that leaves him to a new decision: whether he wants to create an internet trail searching for a picture of el Gorila or if he wants to attempt getting a screen shot from Janos’ blackmail video. The wisest choice is the most distasteful and it means Az needs to plan around his jealousy and will to violence.

So he calls his sister and tells her he’d like to sit in on Karlygash’s sambo class.

Marina tells him not to pick a fight with Karlygash’s coach and that Karlygash will take care of arrangements.

Azazel doesn’t reply, because he fully intends to pick a fight with Piotr. Well, arrange for a match, at any rate. It goes well: Karlygash is enthusiastic during class and afterwards, when it’s just the three of them, she gets to sit and watch Azazel and her coach pit their combat sambo and systema skills against one other.

To Azazel’s immense relief, when the day arrives, they beat the fuck out of each other. Azazel is glad of the beating and Piotr, a giant of a man, is satisfied to get some real-world experience despite Azazel’s clear dedication to fighting without mercy. They don’t normally get along, but their fathers were friends and that breeds a trust not unlike what Az has with Leva and Grisha. Though Piotr, or Colossus as he’s known on the sports sambo circuit, and Az share a sort of understanding having both lost their older brothers. Savva to Afghanistan, Mikhail to the Russian space program.

Azazel takes home a euphoric Karlygash and arrives back to his apartment more energised than expected. He might have more skill than Piotr, but Piotr hits _hard_ when he connects and Az assumed several rounds with those big fists would be enough to wear him out if not rattle his head. Instead he has an adrenaline buzz. He gives himself a couple hours with a good bourbon and Boris Akunin’s new novel to crash. Akunin is just too good at what he does, though, so Azazel puts away the new novel and grabs the first of the series since it always has his name on it, anyway.

The moment he catches himself nodding off, Az sets the book aside and turns on the computer. He sets the volume to mute, lights a cigarette, and opens the file.

To Azazel’s furious disgust, it becomes quickly apparent why Janos selected the alias he did. It lights a match to all the alcohol in his veins.

It takes three or four attempts to watch long enough to get the screenshot. It also takes plenty of tobacco and filling the kitchen sink with cold water and ice and then submerging his head. In the end he gets the shot but he has to change into his active wear and take a long run.

As he runs, Azazel calms himself with the reminder that el Gorila won’t see another Christmas and that in five months Janos will be coming to Omsk. In fact, their anniversary is in August and that surely is no coincidence: Janos can be reckless, but things like that are never a matter of chance no matter his reasons or excuses. Janos birthday is also in August, but he’s always been more inclined to celebrate his name day in February instead. Azazel intends to celebrate his birthday anyway.

He focuses on what August will bring and that by then el Gorila might already be cremated or buried, whatever Catholic Spaniards do with their dead. When he gets back to his apartment he cleans and sharpens his knives and then cleans and oils all the guns he has in the place. It’s a form of meditation and when done in combination with a cigarette and alcohol, it has the desired effect.

A week later he’ll in Petersburg again to board a ship. He will pass the screenshot to his contact and let the anger sink and simmer deep beneath his skin. From there it will all be a matter of waiting and passing time. At least out on the water it’s safer to communicate with Janos again. He can make it through one more week. From there it will be two weeks down and twenty-two to go.

* * *

“What are you wearing?”

“Feh, what do you think? Arctic, Janos. I am wearing three layers of clothing even though I’m in my room.”

“Does that include your underwear?”

“Four layers.”

“How many zippers would it take for me to get to your cock? My mouth is very warm, the only layer it would need.”

“Fuck, are you home? Are the girls out?”

“I just returned from the post office where I picked up a package from you. I’m home and in the bathroom with the door locked.”

“I lied. One zipper, thermals, and boxer brief y-front. Open the damn box, Janos.”

“I did. Why do you think I’m in the bathroom with the door locked? I hope that El Diablo here isn’t a cheap piece of latex.”

“It was expensive for something that doesn’t use batteries. Packaging should make the quality obvious.”

“Feels…mmm, nice. I’m rubbing his tip against my bottom lip.”

There is an unexpected benefit to Janos’ decision to not meet for such a long amount of time. Though he’s clearly busy, sometimes to the point he can’t cover exhaustion, Janos has necessarily restricted their communication almost purely to words. That and selfies and the occasional video call when privacy allows.

Privacy rarely allows: as a nod to Azazel’s jealousy, Janos has managed to move in with three women instead of with Carlos and his roommates. They only agreed to let Janos move in because he’s gay and he agreed to cook three days a week. Even when the way to the heart isn’t through the stomach, good cooking remains an impressive bargaining chip.

One of the apartment girls hates Janos, another is the one that was wary of Azazel at the MoMA café last year, the third flirts with him constantly and asks prying questions about his love life. He sleeps in what passes for their living room on a fold out couch and has traded modelling with a local designer in return for storing his fall and winter wardrobe.

“I wish I could take the phone into the shower.”

“I’ll buy you waterproof case. Are you wearing anything?”

“The orchid-print Gravevault shorts with the low-rise waist and high-cut ass cheeks. Get your hand on your cock and I’ll take them off.”

Fuck, it’s the silky booty-shorts underwear from Japan. Azazel puts the phone down, unzips his pants, and sinks his right hand beneath his thermals and briefs to take a grip of his hardening prick. A thrill of physical excitement clenches his balls at the touch, despite it being his own callused hand. “Done. Take them off. Do you have lubrication?”

There’s a rustling sound like something moving over the phone and then Janos’ voice again. “I’m rubbing them on the phone. And, yes, I have lube. Do you have lotion?”

“Yes, wait for me to get it.” Azazel squeezes his cock before releasing the warm flesh and taking his hand out. He sets the phone aside to get the unscented hand lotion Janos packed for him a month ago and shakes some out. As an afterthought, he uncaps the shampoo and conditioner bottles and taps a little of each into his hand, too. It might make more of a mess, but the scent alone is enough to make him that much harder. He rubs his hands together to get them mixed and to warm the lotion up before he sticks his right hand back down to his prick and picks up the phone in his left.

Setting the phone back to his ear, Azazel can hear the shower going in the background and Janos breathing carefully over the connection.

“I said to wait,” Azazel says and slides his hand up the length of his stiffening cock.

“It’s only my fingers,” Janos says, sounding both petulant and coy. “I wish this dildo is the kind with a suction cup.”

“Next time.” He’ll buy Janos all the dildos and vibrators he wants. Janos only has to ask. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

He hears more of Janos’ measured breathing and then a slight hitch on an inhale. Janos answers in Spanish. “Fucking my hand.”

Azazel wishes it was his hand on Janos’ dick, but it’s enough for now that without Janos near Azazel can at least he’s tease himself. He scrapes his fingernails down his shaft and up again to spread an exciting bit of burn along the length of his cock. “Foreplay?”

“Only a little,” Janos says. The phone jostles a bit as he moves it around. “One of the girls could come home soon.”

Azazel swears lightly under his breath. This is a drawback to him asking Janos to find somebody, anybody, but Carlos to move in with. Most men he knows don’t care if another man knows if they’re masturbating; it’s a common fact of male life. But it’s always different when the opposite gender is present. Unless it’s Raven, who has terrible boundaries, and had once gone so far as to cheer them on when he and Janos had gotten too loud during an explosive round of angry sex.

“Talk to me,” Janos says. His breath is getting a little less controlled. “Do you have your hand on your cock?”

“I’m using my nails.”

A hard exhale comes across the connection. “Are you? I want to scratch you until I feel your skin under my fingernails. I’ll leave you looking like a dog that tried to fuck a cat.”

Azazel closes his eyes and swallows reflexively. It feels like the temperature under his clothes just spiked into nearly intolerable territory. He takes a tighter grip and thrusts up into his hand. “Yes. Tell me more.”

Janos’ phone jostles again. “I’m on my knees. El Diablo is on the floor and I’m right above him. He’s touching me. Make me want him inside me.”

Azazel can imagine it; Janos in the bathroom, poised over the dark red phallus, hand on his cock, ready for it as the shower fills the room with steam. His hair is probably slightly damp and sticking to his skin. Probably he’s biting his lower lip.

“Fuck, Yanochka,” Azazel says and sounds far too affected for comfort. “If I was there, I would hold one of your ass cheeks up so I can see, bite your neck, and then grab your hip and slowly push you down. I would watch you take it.”

“Yes,” Janos says breathlessly. “Mmm, yes, I’m moving down, I’m taking him.”

Azazel swears again and puts the phone down on his chest so he can take his hand out of his pants and shove them down past his hips. The cold feels good on his hot skin, the contrast is perfect. What he wouldn’t give to fuck Janos in a snow drift.

He grabs his cock again and starts fucking into his hand, this time the scent of the shampoo and conditioner spreads into the room with the friction. With his free left hand he picks the phone back up to hear Janos’ moans and gasps.

That’s not what he hears. He hears Janos saying loudly, calmly, in English, “If you have to go so bad, pee in the kitchen sink. I’m not getting out of the shower to unlock the door.”

Az’s temperature begins to cool.

“Yes, I’m alone in here.”

And his erection to fade a bit.

“Is it your business if I talk while I masturbate in the shower? No.”

It comes as no surprise when the call abruptly ends. Janos may remain aroused when interrupted by an interloper, but only if he’s having sex with Az. Being caught masturbating disturbs the image he likes to project.

Azazel sighs and drops the phone back on the bed beside his head. It’s been two months and while Az is free to schedule himself to be available when Janos isn’t training or bartending, Janos is rarely alone in the apartment. Azazel curses his jealousy; at least in an apartment full of men Janos could get away with being overheard. Though the idea of Carlos hearing Janos bothers Azazel enough that he feels better about Janos sleeping on a couch in an apartment full of women.

* * *

There are days, many of them, when Azazel wishes his partners had not overruled him on the whole mercenary thing. Security is mind-numbing on the cold seas; not at all like the warmer waters of the Straits of Malacca, the Gulf of Aden, or the like. No, the most action he sees is when the ship’s crew get belligerent, try to steal cargo, or those few times near collisions occur.

“What school did you go to in New York?”

Which is why asking Janos questions he shouldn’t has become appealing.

“I’ll tell you when I see you next. Try again.”

Azazel is in the ship’s galley, working up a soup that he’s given a heavy hand of thyme to and speaking to Janos in Spanish. “What kind of training are you doing?”

“Have you ever heard of ballet yoga?”

“Be serious and no answering questions with questions.”

“Of course I’m serious. I’ve been trying it; it’s really good for stretching and loosening muscles. You should see how flexible I am these days. I can over-extend when I do splits.”

Azazel smiles despite himself. He’d like to see Janos do one of these over-extended splits like he’s seen Russian ballerinas and danseurs do. “You’ve always been most flexible person I know. Are you really doing this ballet yoga?”

“Yes. My turn.”

“Go,” Azazel says, but there’s a pause and he hears, just barely, the sound of Janos stifling a yawn. It’s just after midnight on a Tuesday night. There wasn’t enough work at the bar Janos has been working at so he volunteered to be cut early.

“Have you ever been in love?” Janos asks. He’s tired enough that the first half of his uncharacteristic question comes at the tail end of the yawn he was trying to subdue.

“No,” Azazel replies. “It was never important. I had wanted to make a family at some point, but so few of my friends were in love with their spouses that I thought love wasn’t necessary. So I never tried.”

“A family…?” The hint of disappointment in Janos’ voice is expected. Janos is no fan of families, after all.

“It’s not your turn,” Azazel says. He dips a spoon into the soup, blows on it to take a bit of the heat off, and gives it a try. Other than the beans needing a bit more time, he thinks it tastes fine. He’ll heap sour cream on it later. “How about you? Have you been in love?”

Azazel assumes the answer will be ‘no’, but he’s surprised to hear Janos snort. “Yes. Hopefully never again. No more questions, I need to try to sleep.”

It’s only then Azazel realizes his mistake and what Janos was hinting at. “No more questions, but I think I have something boring to say that will help you sleep.”

It takes a few moments to answer and it makes Azazel wonder if it’s one of those times that Janos has actually fallen asleep with the app still open. “Okay.”

Azazel turns the heat off the burner and moves the saucepan off the heat. He places the lid on the pot and watches the underside immediately fog up and bead with steam. Finding the words should be easy enough but for once he’s at a loss.

“I’ve said it before. I no longer look at this thing with you as something short term that could end at any moment. I want it to last as long as possible.”

“This thing,” Janos echoes and sighs, but the scorn has faded from his voice and weariness taken over again. “Tell me another boring story, cabrón.”

A soft exhale resembling a laugh escapes Azazel. “How about this? What story did you like in the books I sent?”

“The Emperor’s New Clothes,” Janos replies. “Did you know it’s a Spanish story? I don’t remember it, but I didn’t read much back then. I think I liked that book’s version of Little Red Hood, too.”

“Do you want me to tell you the Russian version of one of those as a bed time story?” It’s only half-teasing. Azazel hasn’t forgotten that, in a moment of weakness, Janos had admitted Azazel’s voice, his boring stories, help Janos sleep.

Azazel expects Janos to get annoyed with the suggestion, but instead Janos pauses and then says, “Was Little Red a Communist story in Russia?”

“Red, eh? I may know a Communist version. Is that what you want?”

“Are you going to make one up?”

“I might.”

Janos scoffs, but asks Azazel to tell him the usual version instead since it will probably be less terrible. Azazel does as asked, speaking in a measured voice, as subtly monotonous as he can be, and doesn’t end the call until he’s sure Janos has fallen asleep on him.

* * *

The call comes at about 2pm when Azazel is in port in Pusan, surrounded by a surfeit of free wifi. South Korea is the most connected place he’s ever been, which is both good and bad at times. He knows a few people in Pusan, the majority are Russian prostitutes that he has no qualms hiring for shopping and the like. He’s at a coffee shop catching up with a Siberian woman that’s always been happy to help him buy skin care products for Janos.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it and when he sees the call is from Janos he excuses himself from Kat’s presence and walks away to take the call. He opens the app and lifts the phone to his ear.

Janos says nothing to start with so Azazel says in Spanish, “Shouldn’t you be asleep, little prince?”

Janos exhales shakily and Az catches himself wondering if Janos has decided to give phone sex another stab. But then he hears Janos’ breath hitch on an inhale and he knows it’s not passion affecting Janos’ breathing.

“Are you okay?” Azazel tries to keep his body language from giving his concern away. He likes Kat, but he doesn’t trust her or anyone else in this port city. Pusan people aren’t quite like the rest of South Koreans, but Azazel is the same wherever he goes: mistrustful.

It takes a few more moments and steadying breaths, before Janos manages to speak. “Bad dreams. I have these bad dreams and I… I’m so tired, Az. I can’t do this. What am I doing?”

“Shhh,” Azazel says quietly. Thankfully the café isn’t full or he’d have to fight the noise of a crowd to be heard. He wonders if the wifi extends into the bathroom but makes no move to go there. “I am here. Talk to me.”

“I can’t.” Janos voice drops lower in volume, his words are breathy and hard to understand. “I can’t do this. You should never have come back. You’ve wasted both our time.”

The words jolt Azazel, but the delivery is more concerning. “Janos, shhh, deep breath. Very deep. Let me hear you.”

“You are too solid,” Janos continues, “too real and I’m like a cloud or the wind. You have weight but you can’t hold me down.”

“Breathe, Janos,” Azazel repeats. “You’re not making sense. Take a deep breath.”

“I can’t,” Janos says, but Azazel clearly hears him blow out and then inhale hard. If he was there he would light a cigarette for him and massage his neck.

“Deep breath,” Azazel says. “You are awake. You are talking to me. I am right here.”

Janos’ breathing slowly becomes more even and begins to sink beneath the café’s background music. Azazel waits and listens. He would really rather not put any stock into the words Janos has been expelling.

“Janos,” Azazel says after nearly a minute has passed in relative quiet. “Do you dream that I leave you?”

A breathy laugh travels over the distance. “No. No, don’t be so full of yourself.”

“Are you taking amphetamine?”

“No. I’m working hard, Az, and I have this strict diet.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Not enough. When I go to Omsk,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, “When I go to Omsk, I only want to sleep. Tell me boring stories about the places you go and the boring things you see so I can sleep.”

“Janos,” Azazel says, mindful of his surroundings, his position near the café door, the woman waiting at the table for him, the early afternoon foot traffic outside the glass. “You have this backwards. Except in Princess and the Pea, all other royalty must be woken up with kiss. If I put you to sleep, that means I am a villain.”

“I don’t care,” Janos replies, “if you make me sleep you are my hero. Dragon, devil, butcher, or anything else, you will be my hero.”

“Does this mean I’m not wasting both our time?”

“If you waste my time, I will make you regret it for the rest of your life.”

Janos is probably the only person that could say such a thing and be correct. Even if Azazel has never said it, he knows there’s never been anyone that he has felt this way about. “I believe you. If the dreams are not of me, what is it you dream?”

Az expects the question to shut the conversation down as it has in the past and the long pause seems to be evidence of that. But then Janos makes a small sound.

“Cabrón, I… the nightmares are about my ex. The one… he… I loved him.”

No wonder Janos never wants to talk about this. The old jealousy flares up, but Azazel swallows it down and makes himself listen and focus on what Janos is saying and maybe what he’s feeling. “I see.”

“I gave him everything he asked.” Janos speaks quietly, but with an emotion Azazel can’t identify without seeing Janos’ face. Pain. Maybe it’s pain. “He gave me immense physical pleasure but… it wasn’t… I can’t do this.”

Jealousy gives ground and protectiveness advances. Azazel’s grip is so tight on his phone that he can feel the pulse of his blood in his fingers. “Which is he?”

“Hostia.” Janos sighs over the phone. “Do you really think I make blackmail of people I love? Why did I think it will be any different if I tell you anything? Good night, Az.”

“No,” Azazel says in a rush, “I’m angry because it sounds like he hurt you. Why would you have nightmares of him if you care?”

“Does that matter?” Janos asks, voice flat, “If I tell you his name maybe you will track him down and kill him. But that would be for you and not for me. Sometimes your jealousy is fun, Azazel, but only when I choose to provoke you.”

“It isn’t my jealousy!” Azazel says, but there’s no answer. The call has ended. He swears in Russian and considers calling back but thinks better of it. Janos is exhausted, he’s stressed, and the chances he will listen are unlikely.

And when it comes down to it, anything Azazel says now will be made a lie later, when somewhere in Seville, a Gorila will fall down dead.

* * *

From Pusan it’s Dalian. The last time Azazel was here a virulent cold had swept through the ship and his entire security team, himself included, had gotten sick. It was also back when Janos had the _Desnudo_ photoshoot. Janos hasn’t sent selfies for a month but he continues to pass on outtakes and finished pieces from photoshoots as he gets them. One of the more recent shoots is sports apparel related: they’ve dressed him in red and photographed him charging through sheets of green and yellow paint. Janos likes artistic shoots, but Azazel’s not sure this qualifies.

_I got paint in my nose and mouth. Some of it dried in my hair._ 5:19 PM

Azazel sighs at the text that had come in after the photo. Hopefully Janos’ key shots will be good enough for publication. It’s a matter of chance when the photographic elements aren’t a science. Either way, he’s sure Janos has been well-paid for the work. With Balmain and Joseph Abboud in his portfolio, Janos has had a nice boost in demand and compensation, but he continues to be used predominantly in sportswear. It’s not a bad thing, but Janos yearns for couture.

The paint shoot contributes evidence to a latent suspicion: Janos’ training for his mysterious audition must be every bit as physically demanding as Janos had claimed. Perhaps more so because Janos’ already hollow cheeks have slimmed, his chest and biceps have lost some size, but his muscle tone is becoming more defined and lean than before. Azazel’s beginning to see definition in core muscles that Janos had played down before.

If he’s honest with himself, and he usually is, Azazel doesn’t care for the change. Janos’ prior look, the look he’d been cultivating ever since Azazel has known him, has been athletic with targeted training and diet that emphasized his torso and upper body. He’d always retained enough body fat that his definition was pleasing without looking ripped. As a sort of joke, Janos called his look athletics glam.

No wonder the selfies have dropped off. This new focus on muscle tone has never been a look Janos has gone for; it’s not in line with his glamourous aesthetic. Janos likes to look good without looking like he works at it.

It takes two days of thinking about the image before he sends it to Raven with the suggestion Janos might be working himself too hard.

Azazel wakes up the next day to a reply asking if there’s a good time to talk. He sets a time, she accepts it, and several hours later when they’re both free Azazel makes the call.

Raven accepts the request and starts talking immediately. “Look, I know you hate Charles, but he’s going to be in Westchester for a few days and I think he’d be up to stage an intervention. Like, lunch or something? Because as much as I love Janos, he looks like he’s losing a lot of weight and I can’t take another drunk dial like the one last week.”

“ _Que_?” Azazel says. It takes him a second to realise he’s just broken out in Spanish. Azazel’s English has been limited lately and it shows. “Drunk dial? When?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Raven says, suddenly less lively, “he can’t just call you. It was last week. He’s a nightmare when he gets shit-faced and he was definitely shit-faced and angry. It’s not healthy, but at least he doesn’t get that drunk much. I just wish one of us was over there to help him with the stress.”

There’s more to process than Azazel expected to have so quickly, but he’s nothing if not quick-witted. It pains him, but he makes the best plan he can based on what Raven’s said, good sense, and against his natural inclinations. “Charles should meet Janos for lunch. Tell him Janos favours mimosas on Sunday when he tries to relax.”

“Oh Az,” Raven replies and he recognises and hates her a little for her sympathy. “He’s going to be okay. It’s only two more months. He told me he’s going to Spain to get his passport in order and that he’ll be meeting you in Russia directly after.”

“Has he mentioned audition to you?” Azazel replies. He wouldn’t mind asking more about Janos’ drunken call, but it coincides with the strange conversation they had while Az was in Pusan. Azazel is hesitant to delve too deeply into analysing that conversation: on the one hand it means much that Janos told him about the nightmares, on the other Azazel felt as if he was regressing into the controlling asshole he was back before the break up.

“Sean and I have been talking about that,” Raven says. “I thought Janos was maybe working on his soccer skills.”

“That makes two,” Azazel admits.

“Great minds and idiots,” Raven says with a chuckle. “But Sean came up with another idea. He thinks Janos is getting dance lessons.”

“Dance?”

“That’s basically how they met, you know?” Raven sighs and continues when Azazel says nothing. “They kept bumping into each other at Nike and at underground dance parties.”

It makes so much sense, Azazel spontaneously knocks the side of his head against a wall in self-chastisement. Janos always wants to go out dancing and when he isn’t dancing he often watches dance videos. “You think he is taking dance more seriously.”

“Yep, he can’t sit still if he likes a song. Actually, one day we got stuck in the lift back at our old loft. I was freaking the fuck out because it was kind of scary. So he spontaneously queued up some music on his phone and taught me some house dance moves. The lift was rocking and I didn’t even care.”

The way Janos’ definition is changing, the inner lean muscle coming to the fore, yes, it could be Janos is getting formal dance lessons. Despite his obvious interest, it still seems out of the blue, it seems weird and thus hard to accept. Why would Janos go for something so seriously that had always been for play? Maybe because it would give his modelling career an edge. Maybe because there’s no reason not to take dance any less seriously than football when he’s too old to start either one.

“You know, Az,” Raven says into the quiet, “before you, Janos dumped any guy that wouldn’t dance with him.”

That’s news. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Better get down with him even if it’s that Russian squat-and-kick dancing thing.”

“Traditional Cossack dance,” Azazel says absently. “Learned in Young Pioneers back in Soviet times. I could teach him.”

Raven laughs in his ear in apparently delight. “Video, take video! That would be so awesome on his Instagram!”

“You oversee his social media?” Az knows she runs all of Quicksilver’s, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine her working on Janos’ as well. Raven has a gift for such things.

“We collaborate on his Twitter and Instagram,” Raven replies. “And we used to do his Facebook until he suddenly deleted it in February without a word of explanation. Don’t suppose you have any insight on that?”

This is another surprise. February. What happened in February? It was before the trip to Portland and after all the trouble Janos had with the unwanted attention that got him both Paris and New York Fashion Week runways. Azazel has no idea. It’s obviously not the first time he’s been left out of the loop, but at least that’s happening somewhat less.

“No,” Azazel admits. “First I heard of him deleting that. I thought it was important tool for him.”

“It really was,” Raven says, “but his Instagram suits him more, I think. He broke twenty thousand followers after he dumped Facebook and the numbers keep growing. I’m just running out of things to post because he’s not taking many selfies now and we always have to wait for his paid work to be published before we can post it. He’s not doing as many shoots.”

“Have your brother take photos.” He hates himself for saying it, but it isn’t like they’ll be posting any pictures taken in Omsk. Options are few until after that.

“Then he’s not sending you selfies, either, huh? Or at least not the kind I can use.”

“We talk every week,” Azazel says, “and he sends photos of places, outfits, street scenes, but few of his face.”

“You get more than me.” Raven sighs. “Okay, I’ll send in Charles. They’ll get brunch and mimosas on Sunday.”

And even though Azazel really has no love for Charles Xavier, Azazel grits his teeth and then says, “Give him my contact information.”


	22. Butterflies and hurricanes (part two of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles plays hard to get, Azazel plays hard to like, and Janos is late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: smoking, physical violence, implied murder. (You know, the usual.)

It’s blisteringly bright out on the freighter’s deck. Azazel is wearing a pair of designer sunglasses Janos gave him to replace a pair of Azazel’s that Janos lost while wind-surfing in the Columbia Gorge. It’s just as windy out today as it had been then, only it’s much colder and tenser with the traffic out on the ocean today. This is a Russian freighter and they’re moving along the Kuril Islands which the Soviet Union annexed from Japan after the second Great War.

To their West they’ve picked up a Japanese Navy vessel that’s mostly there for intimidation purposes. Azazel finds the tail amusing, but his men are more impressed and agitated. A few are young and hot-headed and are something of a by-product of the slowly-growing confidence young men are having in the military since the Crimea annexation back in February.

Azazel keeps an eye on the Japanese ship and then decides to ruin the fresh air with a cigarette. Lighting one in the wind is a trick, but he’s patient. Patient because he wants to spend as much time as possible out here rather than anywhere near his phone and the call or text he’s expecting from Raven’s brother. He can thank the well-armed, but ultimately impotent, Japanese naval presence for the distance and distraction.

The closer they get to the Russian-administered islands along the chain, the more likely they are to lose the Japanese tail and for his men to turn jubilant. In the meantime, Azazel stands out on the deck, smokes, and enjoys everyone’s misplaced tension as they chatter over the radio.

Eventually, though, it becomes boring and his phone’s presence digs into the back of his mind. Azazel rolls his eyes, tosses the cigarette butt over the rail, and goes inside with a curt reminder that his men keep him posted.

The interior of the freighter is much dimmer. Azazel’s boots are loud and echo within the staircases as he descends to the level where his quarters are located. The air is stale and humid with cooking, laundry, and the showers, but it’s better than many other places he’s worked so he never complains. His room isn’t big, but it _is_ private and his internet connection is good. He doesn’t need comfort when he’s working, just these basic necessities.

Az places his gun and sunglasses on his bunk and unlocks the phone from his desk drawer. It takes too long to power up, but when it does a few notifications show up on Signal. There’s a missed call and two messages: they’re all from the same person. Az grits his teeth and opens the messages.

He doesn’t even read the message at first, because the first thing he sees is a picture of Janos. With Charles right next to him.

Az drops the hand holding the phone to his thigh, closes his eyes, and takes a deep hissing breath through his teeth. Blyahd, he’s never liked Xavier, but now he hates him because this situation has shifted all the power into Xavier’s hands and the bastard obviously knows it. Xavier didn’t have to include himself in the shot.

Azazel lifts the phone back up and looks at the image again, focusing on Janos. Janos is smiling, though the corners of his mouth are only lightly lifted. A smile is good, Azazel thinks, even if it’s not for him. And he looks good despite the more chiselled look of his face. His cheekbones are more pronounced and the soft waves of his dark hair seek to gentle the harshness. His hair is longer. It might even be back to normal come August. But the most and least heartening thing Azazel sees while looking at the photo is that Janos hasn’t dressed to impress.

Despite the nearness of July’s heat, Janos is wearing a long-sleeved button up. He looks good, but he’s not playing up his body like he normally would with his clothes. On the other hand, it is a little heartening because he’s with Xavier. However, Azazel wants to know more and this picture doesn’t reveal much except Xavier being the usual pisda.

After a few minutes of dissecting Janos’ image, Azazel turns his attention down to the message that came with it.

> _I called at the appropriate time but it seems you were busy. Now the burden of contact is yours._

Azazel’s left nostril lifts in a reflexive sneer. He makes the call.

There’s no reply.

Similarly, there’s no reply when he tries again in three hours. Azazel is convinced Xavier’s fucking with him, but he tries to not to let on that it’s working. He messages him asking for a calling time and time zone. Charles messages back in the middle of the night with a time that lands smack in the middle of Azazel’s next shift.

Not one to let personal business get in the way of his work, Azazel messages back that Charles’ preferred time interferes with his work schedule and gives him a time range that would be better. Charles again messages back in the middle of the next night with the claim that he won’t be able to call for a day or two as his business in Westchester has concluded and he has to travel back to England.

After that first message, it takes nearly a week before Azazel manages to negotiate a calling time that supposedly works for both of them. During that week, Azazel’s employees transform themselves into a model security team to escape Azazel’s very sharp and violent attention. This time nobody is brave or stupid enough to ask Azazel if he’s having trouble with his girlfriend.

They’re only a week and a half from putting into port when Azazel makes the call. They’re only a few time zones apart but it’s evening for Charles and nearly 1am for Azazel. The call takes long enough to go through that Azazel does himself a favour and punches his bunk’s mattress a few times. Thus, when the call is accepted, he’s less likely to lose his temper.

“Hello Azazel, or should I say Mr Zelchenko?” Xavier’s voice is casual and light. “I recall Russians preferring to stand on formality in business situations.”

Azazel’s eyes drop to the bunk’s mattress. It’s going to take more than beating it up to get the rising annoyance out of his system. He slides one of his knives out of its sheath and starts running it through the air in a series of aggressive manoeuvres. “How is he?”

“So no formalities?” Charles replies slowly.

It’s a good thing they’re talking over the phone because, Raven’s brother or not, Charles would envy the way Azazel treated Isaac Heath by the time Az was through with him. “How is Janos? Is he well?”

Charles pauses before answering, probably still trying to rile Azazel up, but answer he does. “He seemed a little tired, but healthy. As usual, he didn’t talk much and was very good at keeping attention off himself.”

If there’s one trick Janos uses that Charles would have a hard time overcoming, it is Janos’ propensity to ask his conversation partners about them. It rarely fails Janos, because people like to talk about themselves, especially when someone as handsome as Janos seems interested.

Azazel sheathes the knife again. “You did all the talking.”

“Most of it,” Charles says, “but you know very well that’s always how it goes with him. Talking isn’t the best way to get information out of him, anyway. Instead, I asked him to be my stylist and took him shopping.”

The knife hilt is rough under Azazel’s fingertips, but he doesn’t draw it out again. “Shopping.”

“Yes.” Charles now sounds smug. “I waited to ask him until after the second mimosa. He did resist a little, but it didn’t take much to convince him.”

Azazel has to admit Charles had the best possible angle, but only says, “And?”

“He is a sartorial expert,” Charles says, "how could I pass up the opportunity? I watched him interact with the shops staff while he helped me put a few outfits together. As I was trying clothes on, I heard a staff member tell him to bring in any of their clothes in if he wanted any tailoring done. Free, of course. Obviously, I wasn’t the only one who noticed he’s lost some of his upper body size.”

“How did he react?”

“Ignored them from what I could tell.”

That comes as no surprise. Azazel is willing to bet Janos wasn’t happy with the implication but didn’t react because he had wanted to take up the offer later. “What else?”

“Well, how do I put this?” Charles hesitates, then sighs. “He seems less… glamourous? And less relaxed. The confidence hasn’t faded, but as the shop clerk’s comment suggests, he didn’t look as perfect as usual. Janos always looks like he stepped out of magazine, but when I saw him his clothes fit like normal clothes. Not tailor-fit. And when I say less relaxed, I don’t mean he was tense.”

Azazel tilts his head in curiosity and sits on the edge of his desk. “Explain this less relaxed, but not tense.”

He hears Charles suck in a breath before he starts. “Okay. It took me a while to figure this out and perhaps it’s something I wouldn’t have noticed if not for Erik, but hear me out. I haven’t known Janos very long, but he normally projects a sort of uncaring kind of relaxedness that I only seen in people that really don’t worry about where life leads. It’s something I see in the idle rich. You can see this in him, right?”

Azazel taps a fingernail against the desk’s laminated surface. Yes, he knows this side of Janos, it is both a façade and a part of Janos’ charm. “I do.”

Charles’ breath is loud over the connection, like he was holding his breath for Azazel’s answer. “I never noticed until it was gone. I’ve always thought he must come from a wealthy Spanish family or spent a lot of time with wealthy friends. I still think that must be true to some extent, but now that relaxed feeling he used to have is gone. I don’t know if that’s good or bad and I think it must be to do with the preparation for his project.”

If Charles only knew the sort of rich bastards Janos used to be around and why, his head would spin. To think, had Charles and Erik not gotten together, Charles could have been the next one. For once the thought of Janos seducing Charles doesn’t make Azazel angry. Instead it makes him feel more determined.

“Your observation is very good,” Azazel says. For all he doesn’t want to give Charles even the slightest bit of satisfaction after the way the bastard made him wait for this conversation, it must be admitted that the information is solid. “But what is this project?”

“I don’t know,” Charles says quickly. Charles seems to become more animated as he talks. “I think it must be something beyond his modelling. He only told me he’s been working very hard for an upcoming project some time in August.”

Azazel stops tapping his fingernail against the desk. “He mentioned audition, but not what kind.”

“It must be something theatrical, perhaps even a role in a movie.” If Charles was trying to annoy Azazel before, he’s forgotten all about it now as he rolls along with his ideas. “Think about it. Six months of intense preparation for a secret project not long after he had all that attention walking, not one, but two Fashion Week runways? Isn’t that kind of preparation the sort of thing we hear about celebrities doing for acting roles?”

Azazel sighs and his shoulders slump. For a moment he had been taken in by Charles’ excitement with his extrapolations. “Janos has never wanted to act. He likes being the face, not the name.”

“He likes being admired,” Charles says, voice lifting with rebuttal. “And there are celebrities that keep low profiles. Not everyone is a Hollywood actor. Besides, we all know he prefers artistic shoots more than anything else. I’d stake my reputation on his project being a film of some kind.”

Azazel shakes his head even though Charles isn’t there to see it. He shakes his head, not because Charles has come to the wrong conclusion, but because something unexpected has suddenly become clear. Though Charles is young, obscenely wealthy, and part of the society Janos has always seemed to want to be part of, Janos has never let Charles move past the wall of assumptions Janos allows people to build between them. Charles is not now and never has been a threat to what Azazel has with Janos.

“Did you learn anything else?”

Charles doesn’t answer right away and when he does the excitement has left his voice, but he sounds strangely respectful. “I asked him if it was hard for him, you two being apart for such a long time. Because back in Portland he seemed to take it in stride when you were away.”

Nothing comes to Azazel’s mouth. His lips part to speak, but his jaw doesn’t move. Who the fuck does Charles think he is asking Janos a question like that? His heart begins to pump harder and he feels heat rise up from his chest.

“And he said,” Charles continues, “that things had changed. Before he liked the feeling of anticipation, like having a gift but not opening it. But now the waiting is unbearable.”

The heat rushes out of Azazel’s chest just as quickly as it worked up. He drops the phone from his face and stares at it for a moment. Without another word or even a goodbye, Az ends the call. He immediately switches to the text interface and types out a quick message to Janos.

> _It has been too long since I have seen your face._

He drops the phone on to his desk and doesn’t check for a reply until he’s finished his nightly routine and is headed to his punched-up bunk. He almost powers his phone down instead of looking, but finds himself distressingly deficient in the willpower department. There’s a message from Charles, which Azazel has no interest in, but also one from Janos. It isn’t a selfie.

> _Someone I know from Seville died recently._

“Pisdets.”

Azazel turns his phone off after all.

* * *

Two days from Petersburg and a week into Janos not returning texts or answering calls, one of Azazel’s underlings walks up to him in the galley, takes a deep breath, and invites Azazel to beat the shit out of him so everyone can go on about their jobs without worry their commanding officer is going to stab somebody to death for a minor infraction. Azazel looks at the table where two more of his men are eating dinner. Nobody looks up from their plates. Not even when the guy’s lip splits between his teeth and Azazel’s knuckles.

Az thanks the poor bastard for his service and then leaves to wash the blood out of his sleeve before it sets. Later on, shirt soaking and split knuckle patched up with a plaster, he phones his partners and tells them to give the man he punched a bonus.

That night he sends Janos another message letting him know that he’ll be in port soon and will be out of contact for another week unless Janos wants to write cryptic emails. Hours later he receives his first email from Janos: it’s all the information Azazel needs to book Janos’ flight to Omsk from Madrid on August 16th. The email comes as such a relief that Az hardly cares the date is after Janos’ birthday. At least he still seems committed to going to Omsk and, in fact, will make it before their three-year anniversary.

Days and weeks move faster after that and, gradually, Janos begins to text again, though his photos have dropped off and phone calls come only a couple times a week. The phone calls are usually late at night and Janos is hardly awake for them; calls on Sundays are better and worry Azazel far less. If Janos has any nightmares, he doesn’t mention them. Raven says she’s getting more of the same and complains that Janos won’t tell her the date of his audition. Sean texts Az and tells him to ‘pamper the fuck’ out of Janos because he’s worried.

In July, Janos doesn’t go to Paris for Balmain, but he walks for Joseph Abboud in New York. Finally, after the prolonged drought, there’s a deluge of photos and videos.

Janos is everything he needs to be when he’s walking. His eyes are somehow more intense than ever and his walk… Janos has always been a graceful man, but watching him now Azazel can see Janos moves with a sort of weight that wasn’t there last year. He remains graceful and smooth, but there’s another dimension that only comes from living within one’s body. Janos has always had that dimension, but the degree has deepened.

Azazel concedes that, yes, Sean may indeed be the one that called this. And, because he can’t not, Azazel sends Janos one of the highest priced flower arrangements he can to celebrate the stunning display. Too bad if it takes up too much room in the apartment Janos shares. They manage to talk one night while Janos is staying at a hotel for the Abboud after party. He’s drunk, hazy, and laughs more than Azazel has heard in months.

But the call takes a turn for the worse when Janos starts to say how much he misses Azazel and how he wishes Az was there right now. Azazel tries to bring the conversation back to the former levity by reminding Janos that he’ll be coming to Omsk soon. Janos’ mood drops even faster. The call ends soon after when Janos insists he needs to go to bed because he has training in the morning.

A day later, however, Azazel receives a picture of Janos with the flowers. Janos looks tired, but his smile is genuine.

The week before Janos leaves for Madrid, Janos doesn’t call except for the Sunday before his flight out. Luckily for Azazel, he’s on his way in from the last ship he’ll be on for the next few months. Azazel has his phone with him in the ship’s meagre gym when the call comes. He drops onto his chest from a push up and accepts the call.

“Give me a minute to get to my room,” he says in Spanish.

Janos agrees and Azazel grabs his towel and wipes his sweat from his hands and face, then the mat. He doesn’t hurry, it would look bad, so it takes about three minutes to get to the tiny room he has on this particular ship. He locks the door and queues up a movie on his laptop for background noise. Finally, he raises the phone to speak.

“Have you had the audition, yet?”

“Don’t ask me about it until I see you,” Janos says. He doesn’t sound too bad; maybe the audition has finished by now.

“Do you think there will be any trouble while you’re in Madrid?”

“No,” Janos sighs, “my passport will be fine. Just remember, when I get to Omsk I want to sleep. The first day, I want a hot shower and I want to sleep.”

The way Janos always talks about getting to sleep in Omsk hasn’t helped Azazel sleep any easier, for all the military taught Az to sleep anywhere and under almost any conditions. “I have a bath, if you want that. I’ll carry you to bed if you fall asleep in it.”

Janos’ next sigh is breathy over the line. “I know.”

“And if you want me to fuck you to sleep,” Azazel adds, trying to add some humour to the conversation, “it can be arranged.”

“I know,” Janos replies. He doesn’t remotely comforted or interested in the offer, joke or not.  “When I get to Omsk, how do I greet you? Just as a friend?”

“Of course.” Maybe that’s the problem now. Maybe Janos is tired of the relationship being hidden in New York and now in Russia. “Unfortunately, this isn’t negotiable. How people see me affects my family, so we must be careful in Omsk. If we go to Petersburg or Moscow, it is the same.”

“And your family?”

“I think I told you my sister is excited to meet you,” Azazel says. “She and my mother know about you. If it is just us and them, you can do as you like.”

“And you,” Janos asks, “when it is just us and them, are you free to do as you like?”

Azazel breathes a soft laugh. “Janos, there are many public displays of affection between lovers in Russia, but this is still my mother. Around Marina, I keep no pretences.”

“Good,” Janos replies, “I hope we like each other.”

A snort comes unbidden to Azazel. “She already likes you, it’s you that I want to like her. Her daughter, Karlygash, I also want you to be friends with.”

“We’ll see,” Janos says, but Azazel doesn’t think Janos sounds hopeful.

* * *

It isn’t usually Azazel that waits at airport gates, but he’s been waiting for far too long while a storm throws down torrential rain on Omsk’s international airport. He checks his watch again: five minutes since the last time he checked. The flight from Domodedovo is now about an hour late and is, like a few other planes, in a holding pattern until the wind lets up a bit. Azazel hopes it doesn’t run so low on fuel that the flight is diverted to Irkutsk.

He takes out his business phone and dashes out a message to Marina. She had offered to come or to send Karlygash along, but Azazel wanted at least a small form of privacy when Janos would get off the plane. Now he thinks it would have been a good way to be distracted from all this waiting and wondering.

It isn’t that he's nervous, no, that can only possibly hit when Janos meets his family. It’s that he doesn’t know what Janos has been up to in Spain, it’s the complete lack of texts or even email, it’s not knowing for sure if Janos is even on the plane overhead.

Another thirty minutes pass before the plane can land. Thirty minutes and three cigarettes for Azazel’s nerves. He’s not nervous, he’s stressed. Worried and focused on the plane when it lands, as it taxis to the shabby gate, on the ground crew as they begin opening the plane’s belly to empty its guts of luggage. He knows Janos’ luggage and he watches for it until the disembarkment is called.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Azazel has another cigarette in hand. It’s unbelievable, but the only thing he can compare this feeling of tension to is watching the behaviour of his fellow conscripts way back when he was in the army. Azazel had never felt that way then. It was all clear cut: whether you lived or died in combat, suffering was guaranteed. Once he accepted the inevitable pain there was no longer a stick with which to churn his guts.

But now the stick is there and he wants it out of his gut so he can use it to beat the fuck out of himself. Instead, Azazel distracts himself with imagining what Janos will be wearing. He always wears layers when he travels. So layers. It's August so probably bright colours or, fuck, linens like the Abboud summer catalogue. Janos knows how to wear linen, especially white linen, like no one else. He always has white shorts and subtly transparent white shirts in his arsenal. But the chance of full linen is low when Janos has two flights and several hours of cramped seating. Transparent linen lower still since he doesn’t seem fond of flaunting how his body has changed.

People are coming through the gate with their luggage now. Azazel sets his feet, shoves his hands in the pockets of his black slacks, sets his jaw. People pretend not to notice him but give him a wide berth. Most of the people are complaining about the flight; Aeroflot is better when it is flying international, not when going from Moscow to the armpit of Siberia.

It’s not a big plane. There’s not a lot of people. But it takes forever. Blyah. Azazel forces himself to put away the cigarette.

And then come a few loud women, speaking a combination of English and Russian to someone behind them. Someone tall, dark-haired, and golden. Someone wearing designer sunglasses and a linen scarf even though it's overcast. Someone wearing tailored designer jeans, Italian leather shoes, linen blazer. He has two rolling suitcases: one of them is the suitcase Azazel left in New York.

Azazel’s heart jerks in surprise despite himself and does his best not to swear. He has to uproot himself from the floor to head forward to meet Janos. Janos who is ignoring the women with an expression that betrays nothing. The sunglasses obscure Janos’ eyes, but Azazel sees his jaw set and his course alter to meet him. Janos’ admirers step aside when Azazel intercepts him.

“Janos,” Azazel says, and takes Janos’ right hand from one suitcase. He gives him a half embrace that provides him the warmth of Janos’ body and the smell of his hair. The shampoo isn’t anything he recognises, nor the cologne, but he hardly cares. Janos is here in the one place it’s been hard to imagine him setting foot.

The return embrace is tepid. Janos murmurs a thank you in Spanish, but otherwise says nothing. Azazel releases him with a curious look but takes Janos’ suitcase without asking.

“I would ask about your flight,” Azazel says in Spanish, “but it was Aeroflot so I already know.”

Janos’ head dips in a nod. His clothes might be an attempt at casual, but his body language is stiff and formal. As soon as they’re outside, Azazel stops to light up his cigarette and then forges ahead again. At least the rain has lifted. Janos keeps up with him, doesn’t lag behind.

It’s difficult, but Azazel doesn’t ask any questions. Something is wrong and asking Janos in public, even in Spanish, isn’t going to work. He gets to the Leda and stows the two suitcases and Janos’ new carryon bag in the back. The new bag is well-taken care of, or maybe just not abused yet like the Louis Vuitton that’s still in Azazel’s possession.

Janos settles himself in the passenger seat while Azazel gets behind the wheel. Az starts the Leda, lowers the window so his cigarette smoke doesn’t fill the place up, and then reaches over and settles his hand on Janos’ knee. “It will take a little time to get to my apartment. The only thing on today’s agenda is taking you there, running you a hot bath or shower, and then putting you to bed. Do you want to talk about what’s wrong before or after that?”

The lengthy pause before Janos replies comes as no surprise. “One thing at a time.”

“There’s more than one thing?” Azazel squeezes Janos’ knee in a reassuring gesture.

“Yes.”

“Now or later?”

“At your place, after a shower.”

Azazel nods and releases Janos’ knee. “When we get to my apartment, I’ll give you a proper greeting. Until then, relax.”

The drive is uneventful. It’s 2pm on a weekday so there’s little trouble despite all the online videos that would have the world think otherwise. Janos spends most of the drive staring out the window. There’s not a lot to see as far as Azazel is concerned. Omsk has several truly remarkable pieces of Soviet style architecture, but it’s an industrial city that’s seen better days for the most part. Despite the better times that came after the chaos of Perestroika, very little of Western Russia’s wealth and public spending made it to the east.

Nothing makes that clearer than the state of streets, the prevalence of gopniks, and the spring floods when all the snow melts. Little wonder so many people out here are turning back toward the tsar. Easy to forget the lessons of history when Nato and sanctions make a bad situation worse.

Azazel glances at Janos from time to time to see if his expression changes, but also to try to banish the bizarre feeling just seeing Janos sitting in his Leda gives him. After all the waiting, it doesn’t seem real. Occasionally he points out a landmark and explains the significance. Janos listens and asks just enough questions to put Azazel at a little more ease.

Azazel’s apartment building is better looking than the old block kommunalka that still loom in Omsk. He never bothered with a house he’d never be around to keep up, though he’d considered buying a dacha of his own. After growing up in a kommunalka, houses feel strangely empty and uncomfortable.

Janos looks around with a little more curiosity as they approach the building and rides the elevator quietly, sunglasses still on.

Azazel’s apartment is on the top floor. Living without footsteps overhead and people passed out on his doorstep is his main concern these days. People still get drunk in the building, but they don’t end up on his floor when they do. And if they did? Well, every community has their fools.

Janos waits beside him as Az unlocks his door and then pulls it open to usher Janos within. Luggage and guest within, Azazel pushes the door shut. It locks automatically at the same time Azazel pulls Janos into his arms and presses their bodies together with enough strength that Janos exhales. Azazel pulls Janos’ head over his shoulder and buries his nose in his hair and inhales deeply. It isn’t the right shampoo or cologne, but it’s been five months and Azazel doesn’t care about that right now.

“Yanochka,” he whispers fiercely, “I have missed you.”

The carryon over Janos’ shoulder slips down and drops to the floor and then Janos is hugging Azazel back. His arms are strong, a bit harder than they used to be, as he returns the embrace with equal force.

“It was hard to do,” Janos says raggedly. “I almost gave up so many times.”

“I didn’t think you would come,” Azazel says and admitting that knocks his pride, but so be it.

Janos’ grip tightens. “I didn’t want to, but here I am.”

Azazel has no answer to that. He breathes out and shakes his head without scaling back the strength of the embrace. It takes him a while to finally relax and let go. When he does, he’s surprised to find his eyes have betrayed him: his lashes are damp. This time he swears and snorts at the idiocy of it all and rubs at his right eye with the back of his hand and then swipes at the left with his thumb.

In front of him Janos sniffs and reaches under his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes, too. It’s a relief not to be the only one feeling a little emotional, but Az hates it all the same.

“Shower?” Azazel asks to break up the uncomfortable feelings clouding his chest.

Janos nods.

They move the luggage to the bedroom. Janos retrieves his toiletry case from his carryon and Azazel leads him to the bathroom. Janos is still wearing his sunglasses which is either suspicious or a testament to his fatigue, but he smiles when he enters the bathroom. He takes a deep breath and then he chuckles. “It smells like you in here.”

Azazel can’t help but smile back at that. He leans against the door frame and asks, “Marlboro and aftershave?”

Janos’ smile grows. “That and your hair product.”

Azazel shakes his head and pushes away from the door and past Janos to get the water started. When he turns around Janos has taken a few bottles from his bag and is looking at them carefully at the sink. He makes no move to take off the sunglasses or to undress.

Slowly, with careful movements, Azazel moves right behind Janos. He kisses Janos’ hair and then he lifts his hands and removes the sunglasses from Janos’ face. The lack of resistance is good, but what he sees in the mirror, looking back at him isn’t. They’re old and faded, but Janos is recovering from what looks like two black eyes.

“Fight or an accident?”

Janos’ eyes find Azazel’s in the mirror. One corner of his mouth turns up in a weak yet rueful smile. “Neither. It happens when I’m stressed and need sleep. Usually I cover it up, but I didn’t have enough time to do a good job and people talk when a man wears makeup.”

He runs a hand through Janos’ hair to calm down from the initial stab of fury. “Stress from the audition or Spain?”

“Both.”

Azazel nods. “You’re going to be in bed soon.”

Janos’ eyes drop down. He stares at the bottles on the sink in front of him. The mirror is beginning to fog over with steam. “Yes.”

“You will tell me about the audition tomorrow?”

Janos picks up one of the bottles and turns it in his fingers. When he looks up again it looks like all five months of exhaustion have caught up to him all at once. “No, but I _will_ tell you.”

It has to be enough. Azazel nods and when he starts to help Janos undress, Janos doesn’t stop him.

The body Janos has kept hidden from him is revealed one item of clothing at a time. It’s lean and wiry and not at all glamourous. This is working muscle and it’s too akin to Azazel’s musculature for comfort. At least he sees no evidence of other men’s hands on Janos skin nor evidence of injury. Not until he gets below Janos’ hips. One ankle is wrapped.

Janos moves his ankle away. “I strained it. Stop treating me like I’ll break. Let me take a shower and do my moisturisers.”

After five months of not seeing him, Azazel doesn’t like the idea of stepping away, but he straightens up and presses his lips to Janos’. “I can rewrap it for you after your shower.”

Janos’ smile returns, but now it’s warmer. He opens his mouth and returns the kiss with a bite to Azazel’s chin. “Let me shower, cabrón.”

Azazel wants to seize Janos and kiss him the way they’ve always kissed after long absences from one another. He wants to get in the shower with him and devour his mouth while jacking them both off. But Azazel swallows, takes a step back, and passes his hand over his beard and chin where he can still feel the tingle of Janos’ teeth.

“I’ve waited five months for you, Yanochka,” Azazel says, his voice rougher than he would like. “Don’t make me wait much longer.”

“You can wait a little more,” Janos says. The corner of his mouth pulling up in a devilish smirk. “I thought you told me you aren’t an animal. Jack off if you need to take the edge off.”

Azazel swears softly and grabs the door handle. “You will sleep as much as you like, but either way, don’t expect your feet to touch the floor tomorrow. When you wake up, you won’t be leaving my bed.”

The soft and taunting laugh Janos gives Az in reply is the most promising sound he’s heard in months.


	23. Butterflies and hurricanes (part three of ?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janos tells Azazel about his ex. Azazel struggles with this but not for the usual reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't die. Yikes. 
> 
> This is probably the heaviest chapter of the fic. It may be triggering so along with some general warnings I'm adding end notes for people that want to know exactly what they're getting into before they read.
> 
> Warnings for: outburst of undirected violence, discussions of sexual consent, Azazel's lack of empathy. The biggest trigger warnings are in the end notes because they are spoilers.

Despite his weariness and the lack of light in Azazel’s bedroom, Janos doesn’t fall asleep immediately nor does he take Az up on the aforementioned fucking-him-to-sleep. It takes Azazel getting in bed with Janos, even though it isn’t even five in the afternoon, and wrapping one arm around him. Azazel doesn’t mind spooning Janos, not when it means his nose is tucked into Janos’ hair. He dozes there on top of the covers, enjoying Janos’ presence while Janos descends, increment by slow increment, into slumber. It takes an hour before Azazel hears and feels Janos’ breathing even out into slow, deep breaths.

Even so, Janos’ sleep can be precarious at times and getting up right away could rouse him. Careful of how his weight shifts the bed, Azazel takes his arm off Janos and lifts up onto one forearm to look at Janos’ face. Relaxed as he is, Janos’ weariness shows in the darkness under his eyes, so dark it’s easy to mistake the blemishes for evidence of a punch to the face.

Another fifteen minutes tick by before Azazel deems it safe to get off the bed, but it’s hard to make himself do so. Unfortunately, Janos might be able to sleep twelve or fourteen hours, but not so Azazel. He leaves the bedroom door open enough that he can look in and see Janos if he wants to and then goes to the kitchen to cook dinner and check messages from Marina.

There’s one message from Marina asking if his guest arrived safely and to give her a call. But there’s also one from a number he doesn’t recognise.

 _This is Ilyana_ _Nikolyevna_ _. I got your number from my brother. Rumour has it that you’re going to be here in Omsk for a week or two. You should go to the mall or something with me and Karinka._

Ilyana Nikolyevna, Piotr’s little sister and Karlygash’s witchy friend. There’s no way she got his number from Piotr unless she got into Piotr’s phone. Azazel wouldn’t put that past her, Ilyana is tricky, head strong, and doesn’t let much get in the way of what she wants. Azazel snorts lightly and adds her number to his blocked list; the last thing he needs is a teenage girl harassing him.

He calls Marina next. She picks up before the second ring. “Did it take you so long to call because you were having a nice work out?”

“Are you asking me if my dick is still wet?” Two can play this game, after all.

Marina makes a disgusted noise. “Az, you’re my brother, you don’t have to be so vulgar.”

“Don’t start a fight you’re not prepared for,” Azazel replies, amused despite himself. “My guest is fine. Sleeping. We’ll fuck later.”

“Oh good,” Marina replies without missing a beat. “After that when are you coming over? We’re still on for supper tomorrow, right? Karlygash has been helping me prepare. She’s excited to meet the friend that played a practical joke on her Dyadya Az.”

“She would be.” Of course she would, she revels in knowing she has nothing to fear from him and that he doesn’t suffer fools lightly. “Supper should be fine. What kind of wine should I bring?”

“Ask mama, Ilyusha already asked me and you know how rare that is, so I accepted his offer.”

“Ilya is coming?” Marina and her family plus their mother is going to be hard enough for Janos, throwing Ilya into the mix could be troublesome. “I’m not happy with this.”

”What harm can there be?” Marina replies. “He loves football and so does your guest. Besides, Ilya doesn’t understand English, much less Spanish.”

“Neither does mama,” Az says. “Kirill and I will interpret.”

“You and Kirill are creative people, I’m sure everything will be fine. Come on Az, Ilyusha buying wine! It’s a mark of his interest and will probably never happen again in my life time.”

“True, because you will be dead after this.”

Marina chuckles and then says, “It isn’t like any friend of yours could possibly have sensitive feelings! Everything will be fine.”

It isn’t that Janos is delicate, but he does have his sensitivities and Azazel would much rather cater to those than his youngest brother’s. “I want you to rethink this plan and how important it is to me that my guest enjoys my family.”

“Hmm,” Marina replies, “maybe the two of you can come over early so you have an excuse if you want to leave early.”

“When have I ever needed an excuse?”

His sister sighs. “Ah, yes, but come over early anyway. That way we can build your friend’s immunity with gradual exposure.” 

* * *

Amazingly enough, Janos sleeps through the night, though he wakes Azazel up a few times with occasional restlessness and a trip to the bathroom. Even so, Azazel wakes up first and drags Janos close. Janos mumbles sleepily, but doesn’t protest and that only emboldens Az. He hooks his thumbs into Janos’ sleep pants and starts the process of manoeuvring them down Janos’ ass.

“Cabrón,” Janos says, the word slurred with sleep. “Morning breath.”

Azazel breathes a small laugh against the back of Janos’ neck. “You want a little more time to sleep?”

“Mmm,” Janos replies, “five minutes.”

Another chuckle is pressed to Janos’ shoulder and then Azazel manages to get the pants down to Janos’ thighs. “Fine. But you don’t need these.”

“And shave,” Janos’ says, and pushes his bare ass back against Azazel’s lowered arms. “The stubble on your upper lip will give me a burn. Your family will wonder.”

“Brush my teeth and shave.” Azazel releases the waistband of the pants and fills his palms with the hard curvature of Janos’ ass. Thank fuck all the training has taken some of the softness, but none of the muscle from one of Janos’ best features. “Anything else, my prince?”

Janos looks over his shoulder, his eyes squinting with sleepiness. “Plenty of lubrication. I only used el Diablo a few times. By now my ass must be tight as the Virgin Mary’s.”

The comment strikes lust down through Azazel’s stomach and deep into his groin to light a fire. His fingertips dig into Janos’ flesh reflexively. “I’ll fix that.”

“I know,” Janos replies, an amused lilt to his voice.

Azazel laughs at that and takes his hands from Janos’ ass. He reaches down to remove the sleep pants the rest of the way and takes them with him when he slips from the bed. His cock is already harder than any morning wood can account for as he goes to the bathroom. It’s been five months and with Janos so close, making those kinds of observations, Azazel wonders if he’ll be able to get into Janos’ ass without going off.

When brushing his teeth furiously does nothing to coax the blood from his cock, Az turns on the shower. The shower he takes is hot and swift, as is the strategic wank to take the edge off his lust. Despite the sex to come, or perhaps in anticipation, the hard and fast orgasm takes him by surprise with its strength and leaves Az leaning against the shower wall against one forearm. It takes a few moments to catch his breath and turn off the water, but he’s now reasonably sure he’ll be able to last as long as Janos needs him to.

The lube is in the bedroom which means all that’s left is a shave. Azazel takes out his straight razor, whips up some foam with the brush Janos bought him the year prior, and then wipes the mirror clean of fog. He’s about to spread the foam over his upper lip when an amusing notion comes to him. He snorts briefly at the thought and lifts the brush to his face.

The drapes are drawn just enough to let in a long line of sunlight into the room when Azazel returns. The column of light travels from one of Janos’ shoulders, down his back, and then amongst the black and slate mountains and valleys of the comforter and sheets that cover Janos’ lower body.

By the rise and fall of Janos’ sides, he’s fallen into a light doze, not far from wakefulness. There’s no guilt to be had, then, in getting back into bed with him, but even if there were, Azazel wouldn’t necessarily care. He opens his bedside drawer for the aloe vera lubricant Kat recommended him in Pusan and tosses it onto the pillow Janos isn’t hugging close to his face. And, finally, he pulls back the comforter and satin sheets and slips back into bed.

The bed is warm from Janos’ body heat and though it probably smells a bit of cigarettes, Az only cares about the scent Janos’ presence lends it. Washing the sheets after Janos leaves will be a test of Azazel’s will. With no need for stealth, Azazel moves right next to Janos and pulls Janos’ back to Azazel’s front. It’s a bit more of a feat than usual as Janos’ body is heavy with warm, relaxed muscles. This loose-limbed and languid, Azazel supposes he’ll be the one doing all the work. He finds he likes that idea. They’ve never had slow, lazy sex before. Except, perhaps, that night in New York when Janos cried.

Fuck, not something Azazel wants to think about, but suddenly it all comes back to him. Maybe they need to talk first. They haven’t talked about anything.

Azazel exhales a frustrated breath that sounds more like a growl than intended. He lifts Janos’ hair up from the back of his neck and presses his lips to the warm skin there. “Fuck first, or talk?”

“Mmm,” Janos replies. “Wait, kiss me again.”

Of course, how quickly Azazel has forgotten. He opens his mouth and scrapes his teeth across Janos’ neck in a bite that doesn’t catch on skin or flesh. Then he presses his lips against Janos’ skin once more.

The response is immediate. Janos loses the heavy-limbed relaxation and turns in Azazel’s arms so he can look him in the face. His eyes grow wide, his pupils dilate despite the beam of sunlight laying on half his face.

“ _Me cago en tu puta de madre!_ ”

“You still haven’t met my mother,” Azazel says wryly.

Janos ignores Azazel’s wit and brings both hands up to Azazel’s face to feel skin he’s never seen before. “I’m the one that lost the bet, why did you shave?”

Azazel snorts. “You didn’t come here because of a bet, Yanochka.”

Janos’ brow knits in an upward direction. He closes his eyes and pulls Azazel’s face closer and, even if Janos hasn’t brushed his teeth yet this morning, Azazel doesn’t deny him the kiss. It’s slow. It’s firm and gentle at the same time. Janos takes his time pulling at Azazel’s lips with his own, licking into Azazel’s mouth, and rubbing his thumbs back and forth across Azazel’s smooth jaw.

Azazel isn’t sure how long the kiss lasts, but it seems entirely too short a span when Janos releases him and moves back.

“Az,” he says and leans up on his forearm, but leaves his other hand on Azazel’s smooth cheek. “Az... I couldn’t be sure I could talk to you. I don’t want to, but I have to. I need my phone.”

It takes a moment for Janos’ words to sink in, but even then Azazel continues to look at him. As he watches Janos swallows thickly and looks away. Lust fades away in favour of fragile intimacy. Their relationship was built on a foundation of sex; intimacy is a rarer prize Azazel had never known he could want.

Like Janos, Azazel shifts up. He takes Janos’ hand from his face and kisses the fingertips. “Where is it?”

“Carry on,” Janos says.

The carry on is on the trunk at the foot of Azazel’s bed. Azazel sits up and stretches down to snag the leather bag and pull it to him. Now that he sees it closer, it’s obviously Balmain. “Did you walk with this one?”

“No,” Janos replies as Azazel opens the bag. “I got it with the Nike collaboration ad campaign. It’s not available to the public yet.”

“Ah, no wonder you haven’t beaten it up.” Azazel comments. He sees Janos’ meticulous packing is present. That’s a good sign.

“The Louis Vuitton is fashionably battered," Janos says. “Inside, zippered pocket."

An amused snort comes from Azazel. He goes to unzip the pocket in question only to pause when he sees a familiar blue ring box. Hands swift and sure, he cracks it open to make sure and sees, yes, it’s the Art Nouveau ring that kick-started their relationship almost a year ago. Janos never wears it, but he seems to keep it close.

Azazel drops the box and unzips the pocket and takes Janos’ phone out and powers it on. “I don’t recommend taking it off airplane mode until we get a new sim card for you.”

“Fine, cabrón,” Janos says. Azazel feels the mattress shift, hears the slide of fabric as Janos sits up. “Give it here.”

Azazel passes it back and pushes the carryon bag onto the trunk again. “Does it have enough charge for you?”

“Yes,” Janos says, voice gone quiet.

Azazel assumes the coming nonverbal conversation is already getting to Janos. He moves backwards to sit next to Janos and puts an arm around him. Janos hardly reacts when Azazel drops a kiss onto his brown shoulder. “Take it slow. We have ten hours before supper at my sister’s house.”

Janos nods, but his body language is growing stiff as he moves his finger over his phone’s face to open an app. His mouth becomes a tight, compressed downward curve. Despite a full fourteen hours of sleep, Janos no longer looks refreshed.

“You can do this, Janos.” Azazel lifts his hand from Janos’ waist up to the back of his neck and massages lightly.

A few minutes pass as Janos struggles with what he’s typing up in his app. This worries Azazel. Both times Janos has had trouble confessing in anything other than text the content of those confessions had been bombshells. Is this more of the same kind of story? Sex and blackmail or something new? How much of the bullshit in Janos’ past can he accept?

Azazel shakes his head in self-deprecation. Perhaps Janos has used sex to blackmail some rich assholes, but Azazel’s hands have literally dripped in human blood on multiple occasions. What is blackmail in comparison to Azazel’s penchant for violence and blood? No, Janos is not the sum of his past transgressions.

There’s a soft sound of impact as Janos drops his hands, phone still gripped between them, to his lap. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I know,” Azazel says low and against the hard angle of Janos’ jaw.

Janos’ head tilts down. He lifts his left hand up and presses his knuckles to his lips. “I saw him. I saw him in Madrid. I had to know how I would feel to see him.”

Azazel’s hand pauses on the back of Janos’ neck and he draws in a deep reflexive breath. “Who? Another of these men?”

Janos shakes his head. “My ex.”

The speed in which concern is replaced by anger surprises even Azazel. This ex, he’s the one Janos has only mentioned once and it was in the context of nightmares and falling in love. “I think you should start at the beginning of the story, Janos. Starting here is bringing out my jealousy and I don’t want that.”

Silently, Janos passes his phone to Azazel.

Azazel takes the phone but gives himself a few seconds to find some semblance of calm before reading it.

_We met at secondary school. I was doing poorly in most of my subjects and he offered to tutor me in maths and sciences so I could play football again. I never meant to fall in love with him. My marks improved and I could play football. I told my grandmother I joined the team again but that was a lie to cover all the time I spent at his house._

At first Azazel doesn’t understand the secrecy. Of course Janos wouldn’t want to tell anyone when he discovered his sexuality. It probably happened at that awkward pre-adolescent stage where everyone feels shame and guilt for things as simple as jacking off or getting those spontaneous and unexplainable erections. And who is Azazel to judge, considering his own situation?

“Didn’t his parents suspect there was something happening?” Even as Azazel gives the question life, the answer becomes clear and a new rush of potential violence enflames him. “Wait, no. How _old_ was he? How old were you?”

“I was just barely thirteen when it started,” Janos says, to Azazel’s surprise. “He was maybe fifty.”

Azazel looks down at the phone and tries to remain calm in the face of his will to murder. The phone backlight fades and then goes out. Azazel grits his teeth and releases, looks back up at Janos. “You can speak?”

“I’ve said this part many many times,” Janos says, but he keeps his face averted. He’s staring at the sheets covering his legs, but Azazel doubts that’s what Janos sees. “The age of consent in Spain is thirteen, except in instances seen as abuse of authority. In that case, the age of consent is eighteen. He only went to prison because he was convicted of abusing his authority. He only got the full twelve years because people are always more upset about homosexual sex than hetero.”

“Janos,” Azazel says as carefully as he’s ever said anything in his life, “this is the ex you say you loved?”

Now Janos looks up and there’s no discernible shame on his face, but perhaps anger. His jaw is tight and his chin juts in defiance. “Are you going to tell me how I feel? Are you going to tell me that I didn’t love him?”

Janos’ expression grows harder as Azazel leans back from him, shaking his head in exasperated disbelief. “I suppose if you can love a child molester then a murderer isn’t much of a leap.”

In the silence that follows the statement, Janos’ eyes widen and his lips part in what Azazel interprets as shock. Janos’ mouth shuts again and he looks away and around the room, anywhere but at Azazel. His breath comes faster, he swallows again and again, shakes his head a little.

“Talk to me, Janos.” Azazel sets the phone on Janos’ knee.

It remains there for approximately three seconds. Janos picks the phone up and hurls it away. It hits Azazel’s mirror and both shatter. And as swift as the phone’s terminal flight, Janos shoots out of the bed faster.

Azazel curses under his breath and scrambles after him, careful to leap from the trunk at the end of the bed to avoid any possible glass shards. He hits the hallway as the bathroom door slams shut.

“Janos.” Azazel tries the door but it’s been locked. Like any interior door, it would be simple to unlock from the outside, but Azazel knocks instead. “Why did you run?”

The shower comes on, but Azazel doesn’t hear Janos at all. He knocks again. “Why are you hiding?”

Something collides with the door at chest height. Probably a fist. If Janos is by the door, there’s no reason to worry, Azazel tells himself. But this is still a volatile situation and Azazel has never been good at negotiations that don’t involve knives and pain.

“Is it what I said?”

Janos hits the door harder.

Azazel takes it as an affirmative, but he still doesn’t understand the problem. Janos was molested ergo the man that molested him is a child molester. And if Janos can love a man like that then why not a man like Azazel? Ah, or maybe Janos doesn’t want to be accused of loving Azazel. They’ve never used those words, not exactly, to name the feelings they have for each other. Janos has hinted in the past few months, but those words haven’t been explicitly said.

But no, it’s probably the emotion and shame attached to the molester part. Most people, Azazel included, think the molestation of children is far worse than murder. All of the people Azazel has killed, after all, were adults and there was little humiliation and no innocense involved.

“Janos,” Azazel says against the door, “what I said was stupid.”

Janos says nothing, of course, nor does his fist collide with the door, but Azazel feels the door shift as Janos leans against it. He feels the door move more as Janos slides down it to sit on the floor. Azazel sits next to the door, too, only centimetres away.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” Azazel says. “Come out and talk to me. Or let me in.”

Janos shifts against the door. “There is something wrong with me, Azazel.”

“Human condition,” Azazel replies, but Janos continues without pause.

“All I have is this handsome face and a way of moving. On the inside... I have very little. Why couldn’t you be happy with my face and body?”

It’s a good question. Azazel leans the back of his head against the door. “I don’t know. I told you, I thought I could be happy with any woman that just wouldn’t cause me problems. Have children, make a family, go on with my work. But you make me want things I’ve never thought I could want.”

“I don’t make you do anything,” Janos replies, but he doesn’t sound condemning. “You always wanted those things, but you wouldn’t admit it.”

“Could be true,” Azazel says. Janos doesn’t usually talk like this, it’s a subject with far too much substance and too much risk. “I want you, Janos. I want to know your life. Tell me what happened with this teacher of yours.”

For several minutes Janos doesn’t move and all Azazel hears is the sound of the shower running. But Janos finally shifts against the door and begins to speak. “I was fourteen when I found out he was cheating on me. I found out the worst way; the police came to question me.”

Azazel mouths more profanity, his fingers suddenly itching with need for nicotine. “Wait. I’m listening but I need to get a cigarette.”

It takes only a few moments to put a pair of pants on and retrieve a lighter, cigarette case, and an ashtray. Azazel sits back down next to the bathroom door and lights up. The first deep breath burns the cigarette down at an alarming rate, but Azazel doesn’t care. He blows the smoke from his nose. “So he was molesting other boys your age?”

“He was,” Janos says. “I denied everything, but I was so angry that I went to his house that night with a sledge hammer. I broke all the windows out of his car. I was still there when the police came.”

Smoke puffs out of Azazel’s mouth with grim humour. It had to have been quite a sight to see Janos’ youthful fury. “Did you change your story when the police arrived?”

“Yes.”

“And then everyone in the neighbourhood knew.”

“Of course,” Janos says, “but I still loved him. If I had been just a victim, people would have pitied me and that would be that, but I never denied that I loved him. What he did was only illegal because he was my teacher. The other boys weren’t his students, he met them at church. Do you understand?”

At church? It takes another lungful of smoke for Azazel to find the control to reply. “Do you mean that he was convicted of molesting only you?”

“Yes.” Janos shifts against the door again. “You can imagine how angry their parents were when I defended him and how that affected my grandparents."

Azazel sucks down another deep and burning breath of tar, tobacco, and nicotine and asks himself what the fuck he’s doing with his life. He’s sitting outside his own bathroom while the supposed love of his life talks about loving and defending a child molester. For the extra burn, Azazel holds the smoke in his lungs for a few beats and then exhales in another long stream from his nose.

Good thing they didn’t fuck first thing or Azazel would be nauseous as well as angry and struggling with this bomb shell. Azazel prides himself in never getting out of his depth, but here he is at the bottom of a quagmire, innumerable square meters of bullshit overhead.

“The other boys,” Azazel says and shakes the ash from the cigarette and into the tray next to him, “do you think they were willing?”

Janos doesn’t seem eager to answer; his reply comes slowly and at low volume. “I don’t think they were.”

“But you were?” Azazel is no therapist, no man of empathy. He wouldn’t attempt to understand anyone else, doubts he’ll get anywhere with this, but he knows so little of Janos that he thinks he’ll take even this sordid story.

“Yes.” Janos’ voice is barely there and nearly drowned out completely by the sound of the shower. “I loved it. I always wanted more.”

Azazel closes his eyes and lifts the cigarette back to his mouth blindly. Of course, sex feels good and at that age Azazel can’t imagine any boy isn’t beating off every chance they get. It’s not love, it’s sex. Surely. Maybe Janos couldn’t tell the difference back then. Some people, after all, never learn the difference between lust and love. Some people, like Azazel, go about most of their lives unaware that love is anything other than a universally held delusion.

Maybe Janos is ashamed that he enjoyed sex with a child molester and he justifies it by calling it love. Now that, Azazel thinks, rings with some truth (or convenient rationalisation). How must it be to know you enjoyed sex with someone that vile? That’s the true sin of Abraham’s God, isn’t it? To enjoy sex at all, let alone with the wrong person.

And then it hits Azazel. His eyes snap open and he crushes the cigarette to a messy ruin in the ashtray.

_Do you think you could enjoy a touch you didn’t ask for?_

That night two years ago, when the Portland trophy wife had pinched Janos’ nipple. That night when Janos asked Azazel to fuck that woman’s touch off of him. That night, after the parties and dancing, after more gratuitous sex, in bed and falling asleep, Janos had asked.

_Do you think you could enjoy a touch you didn’t ask for?_

And what had he replied? Azazel can’t really remember, just that he’d brushed it off as a bizarre, ridiculous question. Until that particular night, he hadn’t thought of Janos as anything but a fleeting luxury. It was the night Janos had said the relationship was real, not a fling, and it was that night Janos had tested the waters for the very thing they’re now discussing.

“Pisdets.”

“What?”

Azazel’s fingers itch again, but it’s for his knife hilts this time. Those are no good at a time like this. He settles for slamming the heel of his right hand directly into his forehead. The blunt but forceful collision rattles his head and sends a wave of tension down through his neck, trapezius muscles, and shoulders. It clears his head in a physical way that all this talking, thinking, and emoting never will.

“Azazel?” Janos’ voice is smaller, worried. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Azazel twists his torso and turns his head so his cheek is nearly touching the door. “I just realised I have some blame in all this.”

“Is...” Janos resumes at higher volume, a note of anger in his voice. “Is that sarcasm?”

Azazel bounces his head off the door. “No. I’ve made this harder than it needed to be. The first year of our relationship I was dismissive of your attempts to talk. Then the second year I punished you for talking about your dream to move to New York. But since you took me back, I’ve been demanding you tell me everything about your life.”

There’s no reply from the other side of the door. No movement, either.

“I talk about how can I trust you if you lie to me or if you don’t tell me everything,” Azazel continues, “but I never made it easy for you to trust me. You hide from me inside my bathroom with the door locked, because you haven’t felt safe to tell me this thing. You haven’t felt safe to tell me about your audition.”

“I told you before, Az,” Janos says, “you changed the rules. You changed your standards. But what I want, it is always the same.”

And that’s yet another thing Azazel realises he’s failed to address. “You’ve never told me what you want.”

“You’ve never asked.”

Azazel sighs and shakes his head, opens his mouth and lets his pride speak. “Should I have to ask you everything?”

“Is asking me what I want so difficult for you? Would you be surprised to know that I’m used to men that don’t care what I want?”

“Pisdets.” That hits something vital and Azazel finds himself once again in the unfamiliar territory of deep self-recrimination. He had it coming. That’s the trouble with letting pride get in the way. “No, you’re right. Will you tell me what you want?”

Janos speaks quietly but with a strength that vibrates his words. “I have always wanted you to accept me for who I am, no matter what is in my past. When we met, I thought that’s what you would give me. And you did, even when you hated New York, I knew you still accepted me.”

“I treated you badly.” Azazel takes out another cigarette and nearly breaks his lighter in the process of lighting it. It’s hard to hear what Janos is saying and he’s angry that he doesn’t know _why_ it’s hard. “Is it so important to be accepted that you let me treat you like that?”

There’s movement from the other side of the door. Janos moves away from the door and a second later, the door unlocks. Azazel drops his newly lit cigarette into the ashtray and stands up to face the door. He doesn’t reach for it, he waits for Janos to make the next move.

The doorknob turns, the latch slips from the doorframe, and the light and steam from the bathroom flow over Azazel like something out of a fairy tale. When he sees Janos, he’s struck once again by his beauty, but some wry part of him that can never be extinguished notes that, for once, he is more clean-shaven than Janos. But, of course, it is always Janos that is naked.

Janos says nothing, of course he says nothing, but he lifts his arms and reaches for Azazel. Janos cannot be resisted. Azazel takes a step forward; the ball of his foot lands in the bathroom but his heel is still in the hall. It doesn’t matter. Janos’ arms form a warm, solid yoke around Azazel’s neck and Azazel’s will falters in the deep brown and hints of green in Janos’ eyes. This is what matters.

Azazel knows he’s fucked. He’s been fucked from the very moment Janos stole his coffee in Morpho three years ago.

“Yes,” Janos says, but Azazel doesn’t even know what question Janos is answering when he has this kind of fucking spell cast over him. “You can do whatever you want to me. I only ever want you to accept me how I am.”

Azazel’s mouth is dry and tastes of smoke. “Don’t ever let me treat you badly, Janos. You’ve always known you deserve the best of everything, don’t settle for less.”

“Don’t tell me what to want, cabrón.” Janos leans forward and brushes his lips against Azazel’s smooth cheek. He feels Janos’ breath puff along his skin as he speaks again. “Accept that as a child I enjoyed and sought out sex with a child molester and when he was imprisoned, I sought other men to satisfy me.”

Whatever spell Janos had him under dissipates with all the grace of a burst balloon. Azazel clenches his jaw and sets his hands on Janos’ hips. “Janos, it’s natural to enjoy sex. You did nothing wrong.”

Janos pulls back and smiles unconvincingly at Azazel. “I never expected you to lie to me.”

“I don’t,” Azazel replies. He squeezes Janos’ hips for emphasis and to ground himself. “I was younger than thirteen when I started jacking off and if some older woman wanted to fuck me back then, I would have done it. She would be wrong to take advantage, because at that age I couldn’t understand consent or that sex wouldn’t make me a man. Age of consent changed a few times here; laws change but human nature never does. That man was wrong to take advantage of you, but you were never wrong to enjoy the pleasure he gave.”

It’s alarming when Janos tenses up and looks away, but he doesn’t avert his gaze for long. His brow is furrowed with thought when he looks back. “Are you making an excuse for what I’ve done?”

Azazel shakes his head and moves his hands up to grip the biceps, wiry with unfamiliar muscle, resting on his shoulders. “Forget about what the parents and neighbourhood people said. Forget what your other lovers may have said. Instead, remember our first anniversary, when that woman touched you.”

Janos’ expression turns immediately disgusted. “If you hadn’t stepped in I would have slapped her.”

If Azazel hadn’t been worried about the consequences of Janos slapping her, he would have loved to have seen it, but he brushes that thought aside. “Ah, but that touch felt good, didn’t it?”

Janos backs away and Azazel has to immediately open his hands for Janos to slip away, back into the bathroom. His face shows how distraught the reminder makes him. “I’m sorry, Azazel, I never wanted to enjoy it. It happens very rarely, but sometimes women can do that to me, too.”

“Janos,” and Azazel hopes his voice is gentle, but he never knows, “you cannot turn pleasure off any more than you can turn off pain. Pleasure without permission is still rape. She deserved more than what I gave her for what she did to you.”

Janos takes another small step backwards into the steam but retreats no further. His brow is furrowed, his meticulously-shaped brows tilted up in question as he looks aimlessly toward the sink and the fogged over mirror.

Azazel watches Janos work the words over and provides no further comment. Janos doesn’t need him to think it through for him. This sort of situation isn’t one Azazel’s thought much about. As a boy, he and his peers had joked about older women. It would have been a moment of pride if they’d managed to have sex with a woman, even an older woman. But it seems strange, to think of any of his little nieces doing the same. Boys, he decides, are just as much the victims of men’s aspirations as the girls that are taught to fear them.

And Janos, Janos is something else. If he was encouraged to go after girls, go after sex, but desired men instead, how much less is his Janos to blame.

A moment later, Janos closes his eyes, clasps his hands behind his neck, and takes a deep breath. Azazel watches him stretch back and cannot help but see the ripple of muscles and sinew that results. He recognises this motion, the stretching, as Janos' indication that he needs a break. The discussion isn't over but Janos needs time to sift through everything he's heard. There is so much Azazel doesn’t know, but he now knows the truth of Janos’ silence and the greater value of his promise to explain.

“What do you think?” Azazel asks. “Time to turn off the shower?”

Janos gives a wan smile and turns back to shut off the water. Azazel manages to enjoy the view despite all the talk of child abuse, but it doesn’t fire up his blood. So much for the marathon sex he’d been planning for the day. At this rate it’s going to be days before his libido returns.

Azazel holds his arms out when Janos returns from turning off the water and Janos easily slips into that invitation. He moves into Azazel’s space and wraps his arms around Azazel’s torso. Azazel pulls the unresisting mass of his lover close and tight.

“Think about it, Yanochka,” Azazel says, “and we’ll talk again maybe tonight or tomorrow morning.”

Janos tucks his head against Azazel’s neck, his chin rests on Azazel’s shoulder. The motion warms Azazel’s heart and he returns the gesture by setting his chin on Janos’ head.

“I’m sorry about your mirror.”

Azazel breathes an amused noise. “I’m sorry about your phone.”

“That was stupid of me,” Janos says with a sigh. “I need files on my phone to explain the audition like I promised.”

Well that’s bad news, Azazel thinks, but he presses his lips to Janos’ hair anyway. “Let’s see how badly broken it is and then I’ll cook you breakfast, eh? We have supper at my sister’s flat tonight, but that’s the only plan for the day. If the phone is too broken you can use the one I pay Raven for.”

“Do we have plans for tomorrow?” Janos untucks his head and looks into Azazel’s eyes. “I need some time and a bigger space than this flat to show you everything.”

A surprised snort of amusement escapes Azazel. “You need a big space to explain your audition? You must have done very well, because it sounds like you want to re-enact it.”

Janos rolls his eyes. “Think what you like, but I’m not telling you anything until I have space and privacy to walk you through it.”

“Hmm,” Azazel replies and takes one arm from around Janos so he can reach up and run his fingers through Janos’ hair. “We have plans tomorrow morning with Karlygash, but I can clear the afternoon. It’s the summer holidays, so privacy and space is a little more haphazardly distributed. I might be able to talk to Marina about her classroom at the school she works. She’s going to owe me after tonight, anyway.”

The sudden suspicion in Janos’ eyes makes his question predictable. “Why is she going to owe you?”

As much as he’d like to cancel on Marina, Azazel sees the strategic value in going to supper now. “Because she invited my little brother, Ilya, to supper tonight and he’s likely to cause trouble. However, if you picked up any cartons of Marlboro in Duty Free, that would make a good bribe.”

“I didn’t bother with Duty Free.” The suspicion turns into disappointment. Janos sighs and shakes his head. “I meant to tell you last night. Almost everything I brought with me as gifts from Spain was stolen from my luggage between here and Madrid. I didn’t have to recheck my bags in Moscow so I don’t know if it happened in Spain or Russia.”

“Is that why you were so sullen at the airport?” Azazel scoffs lightly. “What were you smuggling?”

Janos drops his forehead against Azazel’s shoulder. “Jamòn iberico and lomo embuchado iberico. They left the zuheros, a goat cheese from Cordoba.”

“We’ll have to go shopping,” Azazel says, but he’s not as upset as he could be; with the recent NATO sanctions it’s not surprising Janos’ gifts grew legs. Besides, even if the meat was expensive and hard to get, especially the lomo embuchado iberico, the cheese from Cordoba is more meaningful since Cordoba is close to Granada. “We should be able to find some Spanish wine. Marina will be happy with the zuheros, but I know you want to make a better impression.”

“That will have to do.” Janos lifts his head. He still looks unhappy, but this is far better than his earlier distress. “Let’s clean up the glass and look at my phone.”

Azazel nods, “And we both need to think about things. I planned to keep you in bed all day, but maybe we can relax and watch movies and catch up on other things instead.”

The frown that carves Janos’ face is profound. “You don’t want to have sex with me?”

Azazel takes the hand from Janos’ hair and places it on Janos’ cheek. “Maybe not today. Talk of child abuse doesn’t excite me and sex isn’t the most important part of our relationship.”

The frown fades, but Janos doesn’t look convinced. “Talk of sex with a young person doesn’t excite you? But you read Nabokov.”

Azazel can’t help but smile. They hardly ever read the same things. They've had many discussions of movies, fashion, and visual arts, but nothing concerning literature except the Valentine gift of  _Perfume_. “The literary talk comes after the glass and phone. Maybe we can talk about literature over breakfast, but for now the glass and phone.”

“Fine,” Janos says. He pushes away from Azazel but not before taking a good long look at Azazel’s face. “If I have broken my phone and ruined my chance to take a photo of you without that hideous beard, I will never forgive myself.”

Azazel turns and pushes Janos along and out the bathroom door. “I’m sure Karlygash will take enough for you tonight.”

* * *

_Note: Spain raised the age of consent to sixteen July 2015. Fic's current timeline is August 2014 (which is also why Ukraine and NATO sanctions are a thing)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is, at it's heart, a story about sexual abuse. Particularly, child sexual abuse/rape, and the shame sexually abused children (and adults) endure at having felt pleasure despite having not consented to sex. Azazel doesn't get this at first (most people never do) but he does manage to figure it out.


End file.
